THE  NOVELS  OF 

G-A-BIRMINGHAM 


LALAGE'S  LOVERS 

'•      /  Sir:  :-]    GOLD 
',  HE   SEARCH  PARTY 
1  H  E   S1MPKINS  PLOT 
,  HE   MAJOR'S  NIECE 
PRISCILLA'S  SPIES 
..IE  RED  HAND  OF  ULSTER 
ADVENTURES  OFDR.WHITTY 
GENERAL  JOHN  REGAN 
MINNIE'S    BISHOP 


UNIV,  OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP 


BY  G.  A.  BIRMINGHAM 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  AND  OTHER  STORIES 

GENERAL  JOHN  REGAN 

THE  LOST  TRIBES 

SPANISH  GOLD 

LALAGE'S  LOVERS 

THE  SEARCH  PARTY 

THE  SIMPKINS  PLOT 

THE  MAJOR'S  NIECE 

PRISCELLA'S  SPIES 

THE  RED  HAND  OF  ULSTER 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  DR.  WHITTY 

THE  SEETHING  POT 

THE  BAD  TIMES 

HYACINTH 

FROM  DUBLIN  TO  CHICAGO 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

-G.  A.  BIRMINGHAM 

AUTHOR  OF  "GENERAL  JOHN  REGAN,"  "SPANISH  GOLD," 
"THE  LOST  TRIBES,"  "THE  SEARCH  PARTY,"  ETC. 


\ 


HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,   1915, 
By  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  MINNIE'S  BISHOP   .....  9 

II.  SONNY   .......  26 

III.  ONNIE  DEVER          .....  48 

IV.  SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS   ....  67 
V.  FOR  THE  FAMINE  OF  YOUR  HOUSES        .  84 

VI.  FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY        .  93 

VII.  MATTY  HYNES'  PIG         ....  109 

VIII.     BEDCLOTHES 126 

IX.  THE  CHILD  OF  OUR  HOPE        .         .         .  140 

X.  MAD  ANTONY          .....  149 

XI.     CIVIL  WAR 160 

XII.  THE  DESPATCH  RIDER     ....  180 

XIII.  THE  HIGHWAYMAN         ....  190 

XIV.  TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL  ....  205 
XV.    THE  GHOSTS 221 

XVI.  THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE   .         .         .  234 

XVII.    THE  VIOLINIST 253 

XVIII.  PASSIONATE  KISSES         ....  269 

XIX.  ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE    ....  283 

XX.  THE  CAREYS  ......  303 

XXI.  THIS  LOST  LAND   .....  310 

XXII.     MRS.  WILLIAMS 315 

XXIII.  "WELL  DONE" 320 

XXIV.  BIDDY  CANAVAN 327 

XXV.     THE  PRODIGAL 333 

XXVI.  THE  FATE  OF  JOHN  GOODENOUGH     .         .  339 


2130318 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

I.— MINNIE'S  BISHOP 


EALLY,  Ronald,"  said  Ethel  Mendel,  "  your 
mother  is  very  unreasonable.  Just  now,  too, 
when  we  are  having  such  a  pleasant  time." 

She  spoke  to  her  husband,  who  was  arranging  a 
salmon  cast  in  the  smoking-room.  The  post  had 
just  arrived  and  she  held  an  open  letter  in  her 
hand.  He  glanced  at  it  apprehensively.  His 
mother  was  an  old  lady  who  made  unreasonable 
demands  of  her  children  and  usually  carried  through 
any  scheme  in  which  she  was  interested  without 
regard  for  the  feelings  of  other  people. 

"  What  is  she  at  now?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  is  sending  a  bishop  here,"  said  Mrs.  Mendel. 
"  And  he  is  to  stay  a  week." 

"  Good  Heavens !  We  can't  possibly  have  a  bishop 
here.  It — it  wouldn't  be  decent." 

The  Mendels  had  taken  a  house  in  Connemara  for 
the  month  of  August,  a  house  with  some  good  fish- 
ing attached  to  it.  Gilbert  Hutchinson,  a  keen 
angler  quite  uninterested  in  bishops,  was  with  them. 
Minnie,  Ronald's  youngest  sister,  had  been 
admitted  to  the  party  as  a  companion  for  Mrs. 
Mendel. 


10  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  This  is  a  most  unsuitable  place  for  any  bishop," 
said  Ronald,  "  and  we  are  not  at  all  the  sort  of 
people ' 

Mrs.  Mendel  drew  herself  up. 

"  After  all,"  she  said,  "  we're  not  doing  anything 
wrong.  The  apostles  fished." 

"  But  they  didn't  play  bridge  after  dinner." 

"  We  shall  have  to  give  up  bridge  while  he's  here. 
Your  mother  says  he  won't  stay  more  than  a  week, 
and  he  may  go  away  sooner." 

Ronald  referred  to  the  letter  which  his  wife 
handed  to  him. 

"  He  wants,"  he  said,  "  to  see  something  of  the 
west  of  Ireland  while  he's  at  home.  At  home! 
Where  does  he  come  from?" 

"  India,  apparently.  If  you'd  begun  at  the 
beginning  of  your  mother's  letter  instead  of  the 
middle  you'd  have  seen  that  at  once." 

"  Then  he's  not  a  proper  bishop,  at  all." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  is.  He's  a  missionary  bishop,  and 
that's  just  the  same  as  the  ordinary  kind,  only 
worse ;  more  severe,  I  mean." 

"  Minnie  will  have  to  stop  smoking  cigarettes  in 
the  drawing-room,"  said  Ronald. 

"  Minnie  is  rather  a  difficulty.  She's  just  the 
sort  of  girl  who  enjoys  shocking  people." 

"  She  mustn't  do  it  in  my  house,"  said  Ronald. 
"  I  may  not  care  for  having  bishops  dumped  down 
on  me  in  this  way,  but  while  they're  here  they 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  11 

must  be  treated  with  proper  respect.  I'll  speak 
to  Minnie  myself." 

"  Do.  And,  Ronald  dear,  before  he  comes  I 
think  you  might  lock  up  that  novel  you  got  the 
other  day.  I  haven't  read  it,  of  course,  but  from 
what  you  told  me  I  don't  think " 

"  There's  nothing  in  the  novel  half  so  risque  as 
the  things  Minnie  frequently  says.  I  hope  you'll 
make  her  understand " 

"  I  thought  you  said  you'd  speak  to  her." 

"  I  shall,  about  the  smoking.  The  other  warn- 
ing will  come  better  from  you.  When  does  the 
bishop  arrive?" 

"  He  may  be  here  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Mendel. 
"  His  plans  appear  to  be  rather  unsettled.  He  is 
to  drop  in  on  us  whenever  he  finds  himself  in  this 
neighbourhood.  Your  mother  says  we're  to  have 
a  room  ready  for  him.  Be  sure  to  give  Mr.  Hut- 
chinson  a  hint  not  to  leave  those  sporting  papers  of 
his  lying  about.  I  wouldn't  like  the  bishop  to  think 
we  read  them.  They're — well,  not  very  religious, 
are  they,  Ronald  ?  " 

"  If  I  know  anything  of  Gilbert  Hutchinson  he'll 
clear  out  of  this  before  the  bishop  arrives.  He's 
not  what  I  call  an  irreligious  man,  but  I  don't  think 
he  could  stand  sitting  down  to  dinner  every  night 
with  a  bishop." 

"  Mr.  Hutchinson  acted  up  to  his  host's  expecta- 
tion. He  recollected  suddenly  that  he  had  an  aunt 
in  County  Cork,  and  that  it  was  his  duty  to  pay  her 


12  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

a  visit  while  he  was  in  Ireland.  Minnie,  on  the 
other  hand,  expressed  the  greatest  delight  at  the 
prospect  of  entertaining  a  bishop. 

"  There  are  one  or  two  things  I  want  you  to  be 
careful  about,"  Ronald  said  to  her.  "  When  we  have 
a  bishop  in  the  house " 

"  Don't  start  lecturing  me  about  the  proper  way 
to  treat  the  clergy,"  said  Minnie.  "  Bessie  Lang- 
worthy,  who  is  my  greatest  friend,  happens  to  be 
married  to  a  canon.  I  spent  last  Easter  with  them 
and  lived  for  a  fortnight  in  a  cathedral  close.  What 
I  don't  know  about  the  habits  and  tastes  of  Church 
dignitaries  isn't  worth  mentioning." 

"  I  suppose  he'll  want  a  sitting-room  to  himself," 
said  Mrs.  Mendel.  "  We  shall  have  to  turn  your 
smoking-room  into  a  study,  Ronald." 

"  Sanctum  is  the  proper  word,"  said  Minnie. 
"  Bessie  Langworthy's  husband  has  a  sanctum, 
not  a  study." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Ronald,  "  how  my  smoking- 
room  can  be  turned  into  a  sanctuary  without  going 
to  enormous  expense." 

"  That  remark,"  said  Minnie,  "  shows  how  little 
you  know  about  the  clergy.  A  sanctum  is  as  dif- 
ferent as  possible  from  a  sanctuary.  If  you'd  ever 
been  inside  Bessie  Langworthy's  husband's  sanc- 
tum, you'd  see  the  absurdity  of  what  you  say." 

Mrs.  Mendel  interposed  to  save  her  husband's 
dignity. 

"  I  hunted  about  the  house  this  afternoon,"  she 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  13 

said,  "  and  found  a  few  books  that  we  might  put 
there  for  him.  They  were  stacked  away  in  the  box- 
room,  but  I  had  them  brought  down  and  dusted. 
There  are  five  volumes  by  a  man  called  Paley,  who 
seems  to  have  been  an  archdeacon.  I  glanced  into 
them  and  they  looked  all  right.  They  are  theology, 
aren't  they,  Ronald?" 

"  They  won't  do  at  all,"  said  Minnie.  "  Bishops 
don't  read  books  of  that  sort.  What  we  want  in  the 

sanctum  is  a  few  novels  of  a  rather You 

know  the  sort  I  mean,  Ronald.  I  see  that  you  have 
got  '  On  the  Edge  of  a  Precipice.'  Now  that  would 
be  the  exact  thing." 

"  Minnie,"  said  Mrs.  Mendel,  "  surely  you  haven't 
read  that  book!  Ronald,  I  told  you  not  to  let  it 
out  of  the  smoking-room." 

"  Of  course  I've  read  it,"  said  Minnie.  "  That's 
how  I  know  the  bishop  will  like  it.  Bessie  Lang- 
worthy's  busband,  who  is  a  canon " 

"  I  won't  give  that  book  to  any  bishop,"  said 
Ronald. 

"  I'm  not  asking  you  to  force  it  on  him,"  said 
Minnie.  "  I  simply  say  that  it  should  be  left  in  the 
sanctum  so  that  he  can  get  it  when  he  wants  it. 
Bessie  Langworthy's  husband " 

"  Bessie  Langworthy's  husband  be  hanged ! " 

"  If  you  swear  while  the  bishop's  here,  Ronald," 
said  Minnie,  "  you'll  shock  him.  I  must  also  have 
a  pound  of  tobacco  for  the  sanctum;  not  cigars. 
Bishops  don't  smoke  cigars.  The  reason  is  that  it 


14  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

doesn't  do  for  them  to  appear  opulent,  especially 
nowadays  when  people  are  so  down  on  the  Church. 
I'll  have  a  box  of  my  own  cigarettes  on  the  chimney- 
piece  in  case  he  doesn't  care  for  a  pipe." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  Ronald,  "that  I  can't 
have  you  smoking  cigarettes  all  over  the  house 
while  he's  here." 

"  My  dear  Ronald !  Don't  be  perfectly  absurd. 
Bessie  Langworthy's  husband  supplied  me  with 
cigarettes  while  I  was  there.  Church  dignitaries 
like  women  who  smoke.  It's  a  pleasant  variety 
for  them.  Their  own  wives  never  do.  By  the  way, 
is  this  bishop  married  ?  " 

"  Is  he  married  ?  "  said  Ronald  to  his  wife. 

"  Your  mother  doesn't  say."  She  referred  to  the 
letter  as  she  spoke.  "  Anyhow,  his  wife,  if  he  has 
a  wife,  isn't  with  him." 

"  That's  a  comfort,"  said  Minnie.  "  I  could  never 
have  got  on  with  a  Mrs.  Bishop.  Now,  if  you  two 
will  excuse  me,  I'll  go  and  give  some  instructions  to 
the  servants.  There  are  a  few  things  they  mightn't 
be  up  to  if  they're  not  accustomed  to  bishops." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Ronald,  "  that  you  know 
exactly  how  gaiters  and  aprons  ought  to  be 
folded." 

"Really  Minnie,"  said  Mrs.  Mendel,  "I  think 
you'd  better  leave  the  servants  to  me." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Minnie.  "  You  know  no 
more  about  bishops  than  they  do.  You'd  simply 
make  a  muddle,  and  what  we  want  is  to  give  the 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  15 

poor  man  a  really  pleasant  time  while  he's  with 
us." 

"  Ronald,"  said  Mrs.  Mendel  a  few  minutes  later, 
"I'm  afraid  that  Minnie " 

Ronald  lit  a  cigar  gloomily. 

"  Your  mother,"  she  went  on,  "  won't  like  the 
flippant  way  in  which  Minnie  evidently  means  to 
treat  the  bishop.  When  she  hears  about  it  she'll 
blame  us." 

"I  rather  think,"  said  Ronald,  "that  I'd  better 
go  down  to  Cork  and  pay  a  visit  to  Gilbert  Hut- 
chinson's  aunt  till  this  business  is  over." 

"  If  only  Minnie  would  do  that !  But  of  course 
she  won't.  She's  enjoying  herself." 

II 

Two  days  later  the  bishop  arrived.  It  was  half 
past  four  o'clock  when  he  drove  up  to  the  doors. 
Ronald  was  out  on  the  river.  Mrs.  Mendel  and 
Minnie  were  in  the  drawing-room  waiting  for  after- 
noon tea  to  be  brought  to  them.  The  bishop  was 
a  young  man,  as  bishops  go.  He  did  not  look  more 
than  forty-five,  but  his  face  was  lean  and  heavily 
lined.  He  gave  Mrs.  Mendel  the  impression  of 
being  a  man  of  severe  integrity,  very  little  inclined 
to  human  weaknesses.  She  greeted  him  nervously. 

"  I  expect,"  said  Minnie,  cheerfully,  "  that  you'd 
like  to  wash  your  hands  before  tea." 


16  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  bishop ;  "  I've  had  a  long 
drive." 

Mrs.  Mendel  wished  to  ring  the  bell  and  summon 
a  servant,  but  Minnie  insisted  on  showing  the  bishop 
to  his  room.  Before  leaving  him  she  glanced  at  his 
clothes,  which  were  dusty. 

"  I  dare  say,"  she  said,  "  that  you'd  like  the  loan 
of  a  clothes-brush.  Ronald's  dressing-room  is  next 
door.  I'll  get  you  one." 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  bishop,  "  but  I  see  my  bag  is 
here,  and  I  have  a  clothes-brush  of  my  own." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Minnie,  "  that  being  a  mission- 
ary bishop,  you  might  perhaps " 

"  Missionary  bishops  are  poor,  of  course ;  but  I 
have  managed  to  save  up  enough  to  buy  a  clothes- 
brush." 

"  That's  not  what  I  meant.  My  idea  was  that, 
having  lived  so  long  among  people  who  wear  no 
clothes,  you  might  have  got  out  of  the  habit — 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  the  bishop,  "  that  our  Indian 
fellow  subjects  dress  most  decorously." 

"  How  nice  of  them !  You  must  tell  us  all  about 
them  later  on.  Tea  will  be  ready  in  the  drawing- 
room  and  I  mustn't  keep  you  now.  By  the  way,  do 
you  object  to  China  tea?" 

"  No.    I  prefer  it." 

"  That's  all  right.  I  merely  asked  because  I 
thought  you  might  consider  it  your  duty  to  drink 
nothing  but  Indian  tea  with  a  view  to  attracting 
the  natives  to  church." 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  17 

Mrs.  Mendel,  who  was  deeply  impressed  by  the 
austerity  of  the  bishop's  appearance,  grasped  the 
opportunity  of  Minnie's  absence.  She  slipped  into 
the  smoking-room,  removed  "  On  the  Edge  of  a 
Precipice,"  and  placed  the  five  volumes  of  Paley's 
works  in  a  row  on  the  table.  She  got  back  to  the 
drawing-room  in  time  to  pour  out  tea  for  the  bishop. 
He  only  drank  one  cup  and  took  nothing  to  eat. 
This  distressed  Mrs.  Mendel.  She  was  accustomed 
to  enjoying  a  solid  meal  at  five  o'clock  and  she 
regarded  the  bishop's  abstinence  as  a  kind  of  ascetic- 
ism. Minnie  talked  fluently  about  golf,  a  subject 
which  seemed  only  moderately  interesting  to  the 
bishop.  He  said  very  little,  but  gazed  at  Minnie 
with  an  expression  of  some  bewilderment.  When 
it  became  quite  clear  that  he  did  not  mean  to  drink 
any  more  tea,  she  put  down  her  cup  and  saucer  and 
stood  up. 

"  The  bishop,"  she  said,  "  would  like  to  see  his 
sanctum  at  once." 

"  My  sanctum !  "  he  said.    "  Have  I  one?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Minnie,  "  you  have.  I  arranged  it 
for  you  myself.  It  used  to  be  Ronald's  smoking- 
room,  but " 

"  I  mustn't  turn  Mr.  Mendel  out  of  his  room," 
said  the  bishop.  "  It's  bad  enough  to  come  here  as 
an  uninvited  guest.  I  don't  want  to  put  you  all  to 
unnecessary  inconvenience." 

"  It's  a  pleasure  to  us,"  said  Minnie.  "  We  know 
that  a  bishop  can't  get  on  without  a  sanctum.  My 


18  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

friend  Bessie  Langworthy's  husband  has  one,  and 
he's  only  a  canon." 

The  bishop,  smiling  apologetically,  followed  her 
out  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Here  we  are,"  she  said,  opening  a  door  for  him. 
"  I  hope  you'll  find  it  comfortable.  I  dare  say 
now  that  you'd  like  to  meditate  a  little  over  your 
sermon." 

"Do  I  preach  while  I'm  here?"  The  bishop 
asked  the  question  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  No,"  said  Minnie.  "  Not  unless  you  particu- 
larly want  to.  We  shan't  ask  you  to.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  we  none  of  us  like  sermons.  But  you  will 
have  to  preach  again  some  time,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes ;  but  not  for  a  few  weeks." 

"  Still,  you'll  naturally  want  to  meditate  over 
your  sermon  whenever  it  has  to  be  preached.  You 
can't  meditate  too  much  beforehand.  Bessie  Lang- 
worthy's  husband  always  went  to  his  sanctum  after 
tea  to  meditate  over  his  sermon." 

She  paused  for  an  instant  and  then  winked  at  the 
bishop.  He  started  violently. 

"  My  own  impression  is,"  she  added,  "  that  he 
generally  went  to  sleep." 

Her  eye  lit  on  the  five  volumes  of  Paley  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  I  had  those 
books  cleared  away!  You  don't  want  them,  do 
you?" 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  19 

The  bishop  took  the  volume  containing  the 
"  Christian  Evidences "  and  looked  at  it. 

"  I  read  Paley  some  years  ago,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
don't  think  I  want  to  read  him  again." 

"  Quite  right,"  said  Minnie.  "  I'll  get  you  a  dif- 
ferent sort  of  book.  There  was  an  excellent  one 
here  this  morning  called,  '  On  the  Edge  of  a  Preci- 
pice.' My  sister-in-law  must  have  carried  it  off. 
I'll  fetch  it." 

"  Please  don't.    If  she's  reading  it " 

"  She  isn't.  Or  if  she  is  she  ought  not  to  be.  It's 
not  at  all  a  proper  book." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  bishop,  "  I'd  better  stick  to 
Paley,  after  all.  The  novel  may  be  exciting." 

"  It  is,  very." 

"  Then  it  might  disturb  my  meditation,  and  I  was 
up  early  this  morning." 

"Don't  say  another  word,"  said  Minnie.  "  You're 
perfectly  right.  Dinner  is  at  eight.  If  I  find  that 
you  haven't  heard  the  dressing-gong,  I'll  come  and 
knock  you  up  myself." 

She  left  the  room,  but  came  back  again  a  few 
minutes  later.  The  bishop,  with  a  volume  of  Paley 
on  his  knee,  was  stretched  in  a  deep  chair. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Minnie.  "  I  left  a  box  of  cig- 
arettes here.  Why  didn't  you  take  one?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  bishop,  "but  I  don't 
smoke." 

Minnie  took  a  cigarette  from  the  box  and  lit  it. 

"Ronald    thinks,"    she    said,    "that    you'll    be 


20  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

shocked  at  my  smoking;  but  I  told  him  you 
wouldn't  mind.  Bessie  Langworthy's  husband 
keeps  a  special  box  of  cigarettes  for  me  when  I 
am  with  them." 

"  I  should  rather  like  to  meet  Canon  Lang- 
worthy,"  said  the  bishop.  "  He  seems  to  be  quite 
a  remarkable  man." 

"  He's  a  dear,"  said  Minnie.  "  You're  sure  you 
don't  mind  my  smoking?" 

"  There  is  a  prejudice  against  ladies  adopting  the 
habit,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  So  silly,  isn't  it  ?  It's  not  really  wrong,  you 
know,  not  like  marrying  your  deceased  sister's 
husband." 

"  That,"  said  the  bishop,  "  is  distinctly  forbidden 
in  the  Prayer-book." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Minnie,  "  and  even  if  it  wasn't, 
I  shouldn't  dream  of  doing  it.  I  don't  see  how  any 
self-respecting  girl  could  put  up  with  a  second-hand 
husband.  When  I  marry—  -  But  I  really  mustn't 
disturb  you  any  more.  Your  sermon  will  be  on 
your  mind." 

The  bishop  thought,  but  was  not  quite  certain, 
that  she  winked  again,  as  she  left  the  room. 

Dinner,  that  night,  began  badly,  because  Ron- 
ald insisted  on  trying  to  talk  about  a  recent  Church 
congress  in  which  the  bishop  had  taken  a  leading 
part.  He  was  aware  that  there  had  been  a  pro- 
longed discussion  about  the  Athanasian  Creed,  and 
he  tried  to  discover,  by  a  series  of  caution  ques- 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  21 

tions,  the  bishop's  opinion  about  the  public  recita- 
tion of  that  formula.  But  the  bishop  answered  very 
vaguely,  and  did  not  appear  to  be  much  interested 
in  the  Athanasian  Creed.  He  had,  he  thought,  inter- 
cepted with  his  foot  a  kick  which  Minnie  meant  to 
reach  her  sister-in-law.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she 
was  trying  to  call  Mrs.  Mendel's  attention  to  the 
fact  that  there  was  something  humorous  about  the 
discussion  which  Ronald  had  started.  The  idea 
of  finding  a  latent  joke  in  the  Athanasian  Creed 
was  new  to  the  bishop.  He  felt  embarrassed  and 
was  afraid  to  commit  himself  to  any  remark,  lest 
he  should,  unconsciously,  contribute  to  the  merri- 
ment in  Minnie's  eyes.  Before  the  fish-plates  were 
taken  away  Ronald's  effort  collapsed.  He  looked 
piteously  at  his  wife,  mutely  urging  her  to  start 
a  fresh  and  more  congenial  topic.  It  was  Minnie 
who  came  to  the  rescue  of  the  party.  She  asked 
the  bishop  whether  he  knew  how  to  crack  the  joint 
of  his  nose.  He  set  down  his  wineglass  abruptly 
and  looked  hard  at  her.  Then  he  said  that  he  did 
not  believe  that  either  his  or  any  other  nose  had  a 
joint.  Ronald,  frowning  severely,  said  that  the  idea 
of  cracking  a  nose  was  absurd.  Minnie  maintained 
that  the  thing  could  be  done.  By  way  of  proving 
that  she  spoke  the  truth  she  seized  her  own  nose, 
pulled  it  slowly  down,  gave  it  a  sudden  twist  toward 
her  left  cheek,  and  produced  a  sharp  click.  The 
bishop  appeared  surprised,  and  asked  her  to  be  good 
enough  to  do  it  again.  Ronald  muttered  something 


22  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

about  monkey  tricks.  Minnie  repeated  her  per- 
formance and  this  time  the  click  sounded  louder 
than  before.  Foreseeing  that  conversation  with  the 
bishop  might  be  difficult,  she  had  come  down  to 
dinner  with  a  small  watch  in  her  hand.  By  snap- 
ping the  case  at  the  proper  moment  she  secured  an 
excellent  effect.  The  bishop,  greatly  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  servants,  tried  his  own  nose.  Ronald, 
looking  angrily  at  his  sister,  explained  the  trick. 

"I  thought,"  said  Minnie,  "that  you'd  like  to 
know  how  to  do  it.  With  a  little  practice  you'll  be 
able  to  take  in  anybody.  These  little  arts  are  so 
useful  abroad,  aren't  they?  I'm  sure  you'd  find  a 
thing  like  that  most  attractive  to  the  heathen." 

The  bishop  laughed  suddenly.  It  may  have  been 
the  idea  of  teaching  high-caste  Hindus  to  crack  their 
noses  that  moved  him.  It  may  have  been  the  way 
in  which  Minnie  smiled  at  him.  He  seemed,  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening,  to  prefer  her  conversation  to 
Ronald's  efforts  to  get  back  to  the  more  orthodox 
subject  of  the  Athanasian  Creed. 


Ill 


It  was  that  pleasant  hour  of  the  day  between 
afternoon  tea  and  the  sounding  of  the  gong  which 
gives  warning  of  the  approach  of  dinner-time. 
Ronald  Mendel  and  his  wife  sat  on  the  gravel  sweep 
in  front  of  the  house. 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  23 

"  Tomorrow,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
"  that  bishop  goes." 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Mendel,  "  that  he  has  enjoyed 
his  visit.  Your  mother  is  greatly  pleased.  I  had  a 
letter  from  her  this  morning  in  which  she  said  that 
she'd  heard  from  him  and " 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  outrageous  than  Min- 
nie's behaviour  from  start  to  finish.  I've  never  for 
a  moment  felt  safe.  I've  sat,  so  to  speak,  on  the 
edge  of  a  volcano." 

"  She  took  him  off  our  hands,"  said  Mrs.  Mendel. 
"  Be  a  little  grateful,  Ronald." 

"  She  ought  to  be  whipped." 

"Ronald  dear!" 

"  Well,  she  ought.  Fortunately,  I  don't  believe 
he  understood  half  she  said.  Besides,  I  don't 
approve  of  dragging  bishops  into  dangerous  places. 
He  came  in  wet  to  the  waist  the  day  she  took  him 
up  the  river  in  the  punt.  She  must  have  upset 
him." 

"  He  didn't  seem  to  mind." 

"  No,  but  I  did.  I  may  not  be  much  of  a  man 
for  going  to  church,  but  I  think  bishops  ought  to 
be  treated  with  some  respect." 

"Still,"  said  Mrs.  Mendel,  "your  mother  seems 
greatly  pleased." 

"  She  won't  be  when  she  sees  him.  I  don't  know 
how  Minnie  managed  it,  but  his  face  is  all 
scratched." 

"  That  happened  when  she  took  him  out  to  gather 


24  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

blackberries.  It  doesn't  seem  to  have  been  her 
fault.  He  said  he  slipped  and  rolled  down  a  bank." 

"  Bishops  ought  not  to  be  taken  near  banks  of 
that  sort,"  said  Ronald.  "  And  yesterday  I  found 
him  reading  '  On  the  Edge  of  a  Precipice.'  If  he 
tells  my  mother  that  he  got  that  book  in  my  house 
I  shall  never  hear  the  end  of  it." 

"  He  won't  tell  her.     He  has  too  much  sense." 

"  He  has  very  little  sense — less  sense  than  any 
bishop  I  ever  heard  of.  Good  Lord !  Look  at  him 
now!" 

The  bishop  and  Minnie  emerged  from  the  shrub- 
bery at  the  far  end  of  the  lawn.  Their  appearance 
justified  an  exclamation.  Minnie  had  grasped  the 
bishop's  wrists  and  was  towing  him  towards  the 
house.  He  was  hanging  back;  but  every  now  and 
then  Minnie,  exerting  herself  her  full  strength,  suc- 
ceeded in  breaking  into  a  trot.  The  bishop  appeared 
to  be  a  good  deal  embarrassed.  Ronald  took  his 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  laid  it  on  the  ground 
beside  him. 

"  Congratulate  me  at  once,"  said  Minnie,  breath- 
lessly, "  both  of  you,  without  an  instant's  delay. 
The  bishop  and  I  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

"  If  this  is  any  kind  of  a  joke,"  said  Ronald, 
"  it  strikes  me  as  being  in  remarkably  bad 
taste." 

"  It's  not  a  joke,"  said  Minnie.  "  It's  quite  true. 
Isn't  it,  Harold?  Didn't  you  say  your  name  was 
Harold?" 


MINNIE'S  BISHOP  25 

"  Harold  Cyril,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  I  shall  probably  call  you  Hal  after  we  are 
married,"  said  Minnie. 

"  No  bishop,"  said  Ronald,  "  would  marry  a  girl 
like  you,  Minnie." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  the  bishop,  "  that  if  Miss 
Mendel  —  I  mean  to  say  —  Minnie  —  can  only  bring 
herself  to  -  You  know  I'm  only  a  missionary 
bishop." 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  Minnie.  "  You  don't  under- 
stand in  the  least,  Ronald.  What  the  bishop  says 
is  that  I'll  be  a  help  to  him  in  his  work.  You  said 
that,  didn't  you,  Harold  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  bishop,  bravely. 

"  You'd  be  a  help  !  "  said  Ronald.  "  Oh,  hang  it 
all,  Minnie,  that's  a  bit  too  thick  !  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Minnie.  "  My  manners  and 
general  gaiety  of  disposition  are  just  what  are 
wanted  to  attract  the  heathen.  Isn't  that  what  you 
meant,  Harold?" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  the  bishop.     "What  I  feel 


"  Still,  I  shall  attract  them.    You  can't  deny  that. 
After  all,  I  attracted  you." 


II.— SONNY 

IT  WAS  late  in  November  and  it  had  been  rain- 
ing without  cessation  for  more  than  three  weeks 
— not  vigorously,  as  I  have  seen  it  rain  in  New 
York  and  Philadelphia,  but  with  a  dull  persistence, 
as  it  rains  nowhere  else  except  in  the  West  of  Ire- 
land. Rain  there  seems — at  certain,  indeed  at  most 
seasons  of  the  year — to  be  the  normal  thing,  as  if 
the  genius  that  presides  over  the  weather  had  turned 
on  rain  and  then  gone  to  sleep.  The  country  was 
saturated,  and  I,  though  well  inured  to  the  climate 
of  Connaught,  felt  that  the  pervading  damp  was 
getting  on  my  nerves.  I  was  dry  in  bed  at  night 
— I  did  not  seem  to  be  dry  anywhere  else.  I  con- 
fess that  my  temper  was  bad. 

John  Cassidy  met  me  on  the  road  a  mile  from  my 
house  at  four  o'clock  one  afternoon.  He  was  stand- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  a  muddy  lane  that  leads  up 
to  the  wretchedly  poor  cabin  in  which  he  lives.  I 
realised  at  once  that  he  was  waiting  for  me.  I 
sighed. 

John  Cassidy  is  an  excellent  fellow — what  we 
call  a  decent  poor  man — and  I  would  do  a  good 
deal  for  him ;  but  I  did  not  want  to  do  anything 
for  him  just  then.  I  wanted  to  get  home  and 
change  my  sodden  clothes.  I  had  been  tramping 

26 


SONNY  27 

through  the  rain  all  day.  I  wanted  hot  tea.  I 
wanted  tobacco.  I  wanted  a  deep  chair  in  front  of 
a  fire. 

John  Cassidy  also  wanted  something — something 
from  me.  Therefore  I  sighed. 

"  I'd  be  glad,"  he  said,  "  if  your  reverence  would 
step  up  and  take  a  look  at  herself — and  maybe  say 
a  word  to  her  that  would  do  her  good." 

Herself  was,  of  course,  Mrs.  Cassidy.  It  is  in 
this  way  that  we  speak  of  our  wives  in  the  West  of 
Ireland.  It  is,  I  think,  a  beautiful  and  respectful 
way  of  speaking  of  them.  The  use  of  the  pronoun 
in  this  absolute  fashion  suggests  that  for  each  of 
us  there  is  no  other  woman  in  the  world,  but  only 
the  one ;  and  that  is  as  it  should  be. 

"  There's  a  kind  of  weakness  on  her,"  said  John 
Cassidy ;  "  and  it's  worse  she's  getting  instead  of 
better." 

I  grasped  at  a  ray  of  hope.  I  am,  after  all,  a 
clergyman — not  a  doctor.  A  weakness  is  a  physical 
rather  than  a  spiritual  malady.  I  could  scarcely  be 
expected  to  cure  her. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  the  doctor  if  she's  ill  ?  "  I 
asked. 

I  was  standing  in  a  pool  of  water,  but  that  made 
very  little  difference  to  me.  My  boots  had  been 
soaked  through  for  hours. 

"  I  had  the  doctor,"  said  Caasidy.  "  I  had  him 
four  times  and  I  paid  him  twice,  and  it's  very  little 
good  he  did  her." 


28  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Doctors  are  not  of  much  use  if  you  take  them 
off  the  beaten  track.  In  the  face  of  a  recognised 
disease — measles,  pneumonia,  or  appendicitis,  some- 
thing they  can  look  up  in  a  book — they  make  some 
kind  of  fight.  When  they  come  up  against  any- 
thing as  vague  and  formless  as  a  weakness  they  can 
very  rarely  do  anything. 

"  He  gave  her  a  bottle,  I  suppose,"  I  said  bitterly. 

In  Ireland  we  describe  every  medicine  as  a  bottle 
— and  we  are  beginning  to  lose  faith  in  bottles. 

"  For  all  the  good  it  did  her,"  said  Cassidy,  "  it 
might  as  well  have  been  water  that  was  in  it; 
though  I  will  say  for  that  bottle  it  smelt  powerful 
bad  when  you  took  the  cork  out  of  it." 

"I  don't  see,"  I  said,  "that  I'm  likely  to  be  of 
much  use." 

"It  could  be,"  said  Cassidy,  "  that  if  your  rever- 
ence was  to  speak  a  word  to  her  it  might  comfort 
her." 

This  was,  of  course,  possible.  I  followed  John 
Cassidy  up  the  lane. 

On  the  way  to  the  cabin  he  explained  more  fully 
the  nature  of  the  weakness. 

"  It's  been  coming  on  her,"  he  said,  "  ever  since 
the  young  lad  went  from  us.  Two  years  ago  he 
took  the  notion  into  his  head  that  he'd  go  to  Amer- 
ica— and  he  went." 

I  knew  that.  We  had  all  discussed  the  departure 
of  the  Cassidys'  son;  but  he  had  been  gone  two 
years  and  I  had  seen  Mrs.  Cassidy  many  times 


SONNY  29 

since.  She  seemed  none  the  worse.  Cassidy  read 
my  thoughts  with  that  uncanny  intuition  which 
you  often  find  among  west  of  Ireland  peasants. 

"At  the  first  go  off,"  he  said,  "you  wouldn't 
have  thought  she  minded — no  more  than  another 
would  anyway ;  but  the  weakness  was  within,  in 
the  inside  of  her,  and  it's  lately  that  it  has  begun 
to  come  out." 

I  listened  to  a  list  of  symptoms.  It  seemed  that 
Mrs.  Cassidy  had  lost  heart  and  no  longer  took 
any  pleasure  in  life.  She  baked  bread ;  she  washed 
clothes ;  she  fed  the  pig — but  she  did  these  things 
without  zest. 

"  It's  seldom  ever  I  can  get  her  to  go  as  far  as 
the  town  on  a  market  day,"  said  Cassidy ;  "  and  she 
doesn't  care  if  she  never  saw  a  neighbour  woman 
or  heard  a  word  of  what's  going  on. 

"  You  couldn't  get  her  to  put  a  shawl  over  her 
head  and  go  as  far  as  the  road — not  if  you  was  to 
offer  her  a  fistful  of  gold  for  doing  it." 

This  was  plainly  an  evil  case;  but  it  seemed 
scarcely  likely  that  my  words  would  charm  away 
so  lethal  an  apathy. 

"  You'd  think  now,"  said  Cassidy,  "  that  she  was 
no  more  than  able  just  to  put  the  one  foot  in  front 
of  the  other." 

He  whispered  these  words  in  my  ear,  for  we  had 
reached  the  door  of  the  cottage  and  it  stood  open. 
I  went  in  and  Cassidy  followed  me. 

Mrs.  Cassidy  was  sitting  on  a  stool  in  the  chim- 


30  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

ney  corner,  crouching  over  a  fire  that  had  burned 
low.  There  was  a  great  round  pot  at  her  feet,  with 
glowing  cinders  underneath  it  and  grey,  ash-cov- 
ered coals  piled  on  its  lid.  In  such  pots  the  west 
of  Ireland  people  bake  their  bread,  and  Mrs.  Cas- 
sidy,  no  doubt,  had  a  loaf  in  hers ;  but  she  was  not 
watching  her  pot. 

I  got  accustomed  to  the  gloom  of  the  house  and 
I  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  something 
beyond  the  pot,  beyond  the  chimney  corner  and 
beyond  the  house  itself.  They  had  a  long,  sor- 
rowful look  in  them.  For  a  while  she  seemed 
unconscious  that  we  were  in  the  room  with  her. 
Her  husband  roused  her. 

"  Do  you  not  see,"  he  said,  "  that  his  reverence  is 
here?  Will  you  not  give  him  a  chair  the  way  he'll 
be  able  to  take  an  air  of  the  fire  ?  He's  wet  through 
so  he  is." 

Mrs.  Cassidy's  courtesy  overcame  the  weakness 
that  was  on  her.  She  stood  up  and  bowed  to  me 
with  that  air  of  quiet,  unassertive  dignity  which 
the  west  of  Ireland  peasant  possesses  in  common 
with  the  best-bred  members  of  the  English  aristoc- 
racy. Neither  squalor,  on  the  one  hand,  nor  the 
surroundings  of  the  smart  set,  on  the  other,  can 
rob  a  woman  of  this  great-lady  manner  if  it  is  born 
in  her. 

Having  bowed,  Mrs.  Cassidy  drew  forward  a 
chair  and  wiped  the  seat  of  it  with  her  apron. 


SONNY  31 

"  It's  pleased  I  am  to  see  your  reverence,"  she 
said,  "  either  now  or  at  any  other  time." 

I  sat  down.  John  Cassidy  gave  me  a  meaning 
glance,  and  then  said  he  was  going  out  to  see 
whether  the  young  heifer  had  broken  down  the 
wall  which  separated  her  field  from  the  potato 
patch.  It  is,  I  know,  the  habit  of  young  heifers 
to  break  walls.  The  young  of  all  species  do  it. 
I  have  heard  of  young  girls — but  their  doings  are 
no  concern  of  mine.  They  may  break  all  the  walls 
of  all  the  conventions  without  interference  from 
me. 

Nor  do  I  think  that  John  Cassidy  cared  much 
whether  his  heifer  had  broken  her  wall  or  not. 
The  potatoes  had  long  since  been  dug.  The  ground 
in  which  they  grew  would  suffer  no  harm  by  the 
incursions  of  a  young  heifer.  He  was  making  an 
excuse  to  escape,  so  that  I  should  be  left  alone  to 
speak  to  Mrs.  Cassidy  the  word  which  might  do 
her  good  and  help  to  remove  the  weakness  that 
was  on  her. 

For  some  time  Mrs.  Cassidy  and  I  sat  in  silence, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  fire.  I  looked  at  her  and 
noted  a  slovenliness  in  her  attire  that  was  new  to 
me.  She  used  to  be  a  neat,  trim  woman,  even  when 
she  was  going  about  the  business  of  cleaning  her 
house  and  feeding  her  pig. 

I  noticed  that  the  hens  wandered  unchecked  about 
the  floor  of  the  room.  They  pecked  and  scratched 
among  the  ashes  on  the  hearth.  They  sprang  up 


32  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

on  the  dresser,  where  plates  and  jugs  stood  in 
rows.  They  were  free  with  all  that  was  in  the 
house.  This  was  not  Mrs.  Cassidy's  way  with  hens. 
In  the  old  days  an  intruding  fowl,  unless  it  were  a 
chicken  in  delicate  health,  was  ruthlessly  driven 
from  the  door.  Now  Mrs.  Cassidy  was  apathetic. 

It  is  only  very  good  friends  who  can  sit  oppo- 
site each  other  without  speaking.  Silence  is  usu- 
ally embarrassing  to  civilised  people.  I  confess  that 
our  long  silence  began  to  embarrass  me,  and  it 
came  as  a  relief  when  Mrs.  Cassidy  began  to  speak. 
Her  words  fell  from  her  slowly  and  scarcely  seemed 
to  be  addressed  to  me.  It  was  rather  as  if  she  spoke 
a  monologue,  telling  to  the  brooding  spirit  of  her 
home  the  tale  of  her  sorrow. 

"  It  was  three  years  ago  that  the  fancy  first  took 
him.  Before  that  he  was  always  contented  enough." 

I  knew  she  was  speaking  about  her  boy — her  son, 
who  had  gone  to  America. 

"  His  name,"  she  added,  "  was  Michael  Antony ; 
but  it  was  Sonny  we  called  him." 

I  waited,  for  I  had  nothing  to  say.  There  are 
scores  of  these  sonnies,  whose  names  are  really 
something  else.  The  mother  love  that  cleaves  to 
the  pet  name  is  the  same  for  all  of  them;  so  is 
the  heartbreak  for  the  mother. 

"  I  don't  rightly  know,"  she  went  on,  "  how  the 
notion  of  America  came  to  him  first.  You'd  think 
he  was  contented  enough.  It  wasn't  that  his  father 
was  hard  on  him.  The  lad  had  no  more  to  do  than 


SONNY  33 

what  he  seemed  willing  for.  He  had  a  decent  suit 
of  clothes  to  wear  of  a  Sunday  or  a  fair  day,  and 
nobody  denied  him  his  share  of  any  pleasuring  there 
might  be  in  it — the  like  of  a  football  kicking,  or 
maybe  a  dance  at  an  odd  time ;  but  the  notion  took 
him  and  nothing  would  do  him  only  to  go  to  Amer- 
ica. I  was  against  it  and  so  was  his  father." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  relapsed  into  silence  again.  She 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  my  presence  altogether. 
Then  suddenly  she  looked  at  me  and  added  a  word 
of  explanation — a  pathetically  unnecessary  word. 

"  His  name  was  Michael  Antony,  but  it  was 
Sonny  we  did  be  calling  him.  Well,"  she  went  on, 
"nothing  would  do  him  but  to  write  to  his  Aunt 
Matilda,  who's  out  in  Pittsburgh  and  married  to  a 
man  that  went  from  this  parish.  I  never  seen  her 
myself,  but  she  was  his  father's  sister.  Sonny  was 
always  a  good  scholar  and  he  was  well  fit  to  write  a 
letter  to  his  aunt  or  to  any  other  one.  We  kept 
him  to  his  schooling  regular,  only  when  there  might 
be  a  press  of  work  at  the  hay  or  the  like  of  that, 
so  as  he'd  be  wanted  at  home.  It  was  always  his 
father's  wish  and  my  own  that  he'd  get  good  learn- 
ing while  he  could — and  he  got  it.  There  wasn't  a 
better  speller  than  Sonny ;  and  the  way  he'd  write, 
a  blind  man  could  have  read  it ! " 

The  half  door  of  the  cottage  was  opened  and  two 
girls  came  in.  I  looked  round  and  recognised  the 
Cassidys'  little  daughters,  children  of  twelve  and 


34  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

fourteen  years  of  age,  with  school  satchels  over 
their  arms. 

"  Norah  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy,  "  your  dinner's 
waiting  for  you  and  Susan's  along  with  it.  Will 
you  sit  down  now  and  eat  it?  And,  before  you  do, 
let  Susy  hoosh  the  hens  out  of  the  house.  It's  too 
bold  those  same  hens  is  getting." 

The  children  did  as  they  were  bidden,  without 
speaking.  Doubtless  they  shouted  and  laughed  else- 
where, in  the  school  playground  or  on  \ the  road- 
side. Here  at  home  they  were  silent.  It  may  have 
been  my  presence  that  awed  them;  but  I  think 
that  even  the  merriest  child  would  have  found  it 
hard  to  laugh  in  the  house  where  Mrs.  Cassidy 
ceaselessly  mourned  for  Sonny,  whose  real  name 
was  Michael  Antony. 

When  Mrs.  Cassidy  spoke  again  the  hens  had 
been  driven  forth  and  the  two  girls  were  sitting  at 
the  table,  with  a  bowl  of  boiled  potatoes  between 
them. 

"  It  was  a  month,  or  maybe  a  little  more,  before 
the  answer  came  back  from  his  aunt;  but  when  it 
did  come  I  was  glad  to  see  it.  What  she  said  was 
that  it  would  be  no  use  for  Michael  Antony — his 
name  was  Michael  Antony,  though  it  was  Sonny 
we  always  called  him — that  it  would  be  no  use  for 
him  to  go  to  America.  The  times  was  bad  out 
there,  she  said,  and  little  likelihood  of  their  get- 
ting better.  Let  the  boy  stay  where  he  is,  she  said, 
where  he  has  a  living  to  get  without  working  the 


SONNY  35 

flesh  off  his  bones.  Let  him  not  go  there,  she  said, 
or  else  he'd  be  sorry  for  it  after.  Well,  you'd  think 
that  would  have  contented  him  and  put  the  notion 
of  America  out  of  his  head — and  so  it  did 
seemingly." 

The  hens,  grown  bold  by  long  impunity,  had 
made  their  way  into  the  house  again ;  but  Mrs.  Cas- 
sidy  was  roused  now. 

"  Norah  Kate,"  she  said,  "  will  you  and  Susy  put 
them  hens  out  and  yourselves  along  with  the  hens ! 
Don't  you  see  I'm  talking  to  his  reverence?" 

Mrs.  Cassidy,  like  most  good  women,  had  small 
respect  for  her  daughters.  Sonny,  I  imagine — had 
Sonny  remained  at  home — might  have  sat  out  the 
visit  of  a  bishop.  His  mother  would  have  con- 
sidered his  presence  an  honour  to  the  highest  eccle- 
siastic ;  but  daughters,  even  though  their  fathers 
spoil  them,  never  stand  so  high  as  sons  in  the 
opinion  of  a  good  mother.  Norah  Kate  and  Susy 
knew  their  place.  They  went  out,  driving  the  hens 
before  them.  Mrs.  Cassidy  took  the  loaf  out  of  the 
pot  oven  and  set  it  on  the  table  to  cool.  Then 
she  sat  down  again  on  her  stool  and  went  on  with 
her  story: 

"  Seemingly  he  was  contented  enough  and  had 
given  up  the  notion  of  America  when  he  seen  that 
his  aunt  was  against  him  going.  It  was  well 
pleased  we  were.  His  father  gave  him  a  calf  for 
his  own  and  I  took  care  that  he  didn't  want  for 
a  shilling  in  his  pocket,  so  as  he  wouldn't  be 


36  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

ashamed  before  his  comrades — and  them  maybe 
spending  more  or  less  in  the  town  after  a  football 
kicking  or  the  like. 

"  Well,  for  as  much  as  six  months  there  wasn't 
a  word  out  of  him  about  America,  and  we  thought 
he  was  settled  down  for  good.  Then  one  day,  all 
of  a  sudden,  he  walked  in  on  us,  the  same  as  it 
might  be  you  walking  in  this  minute :  '  I'm  off 
to  America,  to-morrow,'  says  he.  '  I've  sold  the 
young  bullock ' — it  was  a  young  bullock  the  calf 
was  by  that  time — '  and  I  have  my  passage  booked ; 
and  there's  no  use  your  talking,  for  my  mind's 
made  up.' 

"  I  knew  well  enough  it  was  no  use  talking,  for 
Sonny  was  always  terrible  stubborn  once  his  mind 
was  made  up.  He  wouldn't  change,  not  if  the  King 
of  England  was  to  go  down  on  his  knees  to  him. 
He  went  the  next  morning,  sure  enough." 

"  He'll  be  back  some  day,"  I  said  feebly. 

"He'll  not  be  back,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy;  "or  if 
he  is  I  won't  be  here  to  see  him.  I  buried  one 
and  I've  lost  the  other.  Is  it  any  wonder  my  heart 
is  broke  to  pieces  ?  " 

A  poet — Tennyson,  I  think — speaks  of  the  words 
of  the  comforter  as  "  Vacant  chaff,  well  meant  for 
grain."  I  felt  the  truth  of  this  description  when 
I  tried  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Cassidy.  She  felt  the  same 
thing,  I  suppose,  for  she  cut  me  short. 

"  Never  a  word  did  we  hear  of  him  or  from  him 
from  that  day  to  this,"  she  said.  "  I  made  Norah 


SONNY  37 

Kate  write  a  letter  to  his  aunt  out  in  Pittsburgh, 
to  know  if  she'd  seen  the  lad.  It  was  a  good  letter 
and  well  written,  though  Norah  Kate  isn't  the  equal 
of  Sonny  for  writing.  But  what  use  was  it?  He 
hadn't  been  near  his  aunt — nor  she  hadn't  heard 
from  him.  All  she  said  was  that  America's  a  big 
country  and  Michael  Antony  might  be  somewhere 
in  it  without  her  knowing.  It  was  Michael  Antony 
she  said  in  her  letter,  not  knowing  that  it  was 
Sonny  we  always  called  him,  though,  of  course, 
Michael  Antony  was  his  name." 

I  plodded  home  that  evening  along  the  muddy 
road  and  my  heart  in  me  was  as  sorrowful  as  the 
grey  clouds  which  hung  low  over  my  head.  Mrs. 
Cassidy's  tragedy  is  the  tragedy  of  Ireland.  Their 
names  are  many,  though  we  call  them  all  Sonny. 
They  go  from  us  to  a  land  that  is  very  far  off  and 
we  are  left  to  grow  old  alone. 

It  was  on  Christmas  Eve  that  I  saw  Mrs.  Cas- 
sidy  again.  I  did  not  mean  to  go  to  see  her ;  but  I 
was  passing  along  the  road  and  Norah  Kate  was 
watching  for  me  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  as  her 
father  had  watched  for  me  a  month  before. 

"  My  mother  says,"  she  said,  "  will  your  reverence 
step  up  to  the  house  for  a  minute  the  way  she'll 
be  able  to  speak  to  you?  For  there's  something 
that  she  wants  to  say." 

It  had  rained  steadily  day  and  night  since  the 
last  time  I  visited  the  Cassidys'  house.  The  lane 


38  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

that  led  to  it  was  like  a  running  river.  I  picked  my 
way  from  one  large  stone  to  another.  I  crawled 
along  through  deep  mud  beside  the  wall.  Norah 
Kate,  barefooted  and  therefore  indifferent,  splashed 
gaily  beside  me.  Boots  and  trousers  are  a  curse! 
If  we  had  any  sense  we  should  wear  kilts,  as  our 
remote  ancestors  did,  and  protect  the  soles  of  our 
feet  with  sandals. 

The  yard  outside  the  house  was  incredibly  filthy. 
The  manure  heap  and  the  pigsty  had — if  the  expres- 
sion can  be  used  of  them — overflowed  their  banks. 
The  thatch  of  the  house  was  sodden  and  stained 
green  in  great  patches.  I  expected  to  see  worse 
desolation  inside. 

I  was  mistaken.  Mrs.  Cassidy  met  me  at  the 
door.  She  was  bright-eyed  and  alert.  She  wore 
a  clean  apron.  A  bright  turf  fire  burned  on  the 
hearth.  There  were  sprigs  of  holly  on  the  shelves 
of  the  dresser. 

"  You've  had  news  of  Sonny ! "  I  said. 

"  Well,  now,  you're  a  wonderful  man,  so  you 
are ! "  said  Mrs.  Cassidy.  "  How  did  you  know 
that,  when  it's  no  more  than  an  hour  ago  that  the 
letter  came?" 

"  It  wasn't  hard  to  guess,"  I  said.  "  A  merry 
Christmas  to  you,  Mrs.  Cassidy ! " 

"  I  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  the  fire,"  she  said, 
"  after  himself  and  the  two  little  girleens  had  their 
breakfast  ate,  the  same  as  I'd  sat  many's  the  day 
— God  forgive  me!  I  see  now  that  I  oughtn't  ever 


SONNY  39 

to  have  given  in  the  way  I  did.  Well,  I  was  sit- 
ting by  the  fire  and  himself  was  out  about  the  place, 
and  the  two  girleens  was  playing  themselves,  when 
all  of  a  sudden  Susy  ran  in  on  me " 

"  It  was  me  and  not  Susy ! "  said  Norah  Kate. 

"What  matter  the  which  of  you  it  was?"  said 
Mrs.  Cassidy.  "  My  own  belief  is  it  was  the  two 
of  ye  together — and  says  she :  '  The  postman's  com- 
ing up  the  lane.'  '  He  is  not ! '  I  said.  '  He  couldn't 
be,  for  the  lane  leads  nowhere  but  to  this  house — 
and  who'd  be  writing  a  letter  to  one  of  us?' 

"  That  was  what  I  said ;  but  I  knew  well  that 
the  postman  was  coming — and  I  knew  that  it  was 
a  letter  from  Sonny  he  had  for  me.  I  knew  it  by 
the  way  my  heart  was  beating  so  as  I  could  hear 
the  noise  of  it  with  my  ears — till  all  of  a  sudden 
it  stopped  entirely  and  I  had  to  take  hold  of  the 
table  with  my  two  hands,  so  as  I  wouldn't  fall. 
That's  what  made  me  know  there  was  a  letter  from 
Sonny ;  but  I  wasn't  fit  to  go  to  the  door  to  get  it — 
not  if  I'd  been  given  the  crown  of  the  Queen  of 
Spain  I  couldn't  have  moved.  Norah  Kate  got  the 
letter." 

"  Me,  and  Susy  along  with  me,"  said  Norah  Kate. 

She  is  a  fair-minded  child.  She  objected  to  being 
deprived  of  her  glory  as  the  first  bearer  of  the  news ; 
but  she  was  jealous  for  her  sister's  honour  too. 
Norah  Kate  and  Susy  together  had  taken  the  letter 
from  the  postman. 

"  I  seen  by  the  stamp  on  it,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy, 


40  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"that  it  was  an  American  letter;  and  as  soon  as 
I  seen  that,  the  sight  of  my  eyes  went  from  me 
and  I  seen  no  more.  It  was  Norah  Kate  read  the 
letter." 

"  I  did,"  said  Norah  Kate. 

"Norah  Kate's  a  good  scholar,"  said  Mrs.  Cas- 
sidy;  "and  well  she  may  be,  for  we've  kept  her 
regular  to  school;  but  sure  it's  small  credit  to  her 
to  be  able  to  read  Sonny's  letter,  for  he's  a  beau- 
tiful writer.  Would  you  like  now,  your  reverence, 
that  she'd  read  it  for  you?" 

Mrs.  Cassidy  fumbled  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress 
and  drew  out  a  letter,  already  crumpled  with  much 
handling — already,  I  think,  stained  with  tears  of  joy. 
I  spared  Norah  Kate  the  task  of  reading  it  again. 
Sonny's  handwriting  is  really  very  legible. 

" '  DEAREST  FATHER  AND  MOTHER,'  he  wrote : 
'  This  comes  hoping  to  find  you  as  well  as  it  leaves 
me  presently.  Within  is  an  order  for  twenty  dol- 
lars. It's  what  I'd  like  to  have  sent  before,  only 
I  hadn't  it  till  now — nor  I  wouldn't  write  so  long 
as  I'd  nothing  to  send;  but  I've  fine  earning  now 
and  I've  made  good,  which  is  what  they  say  out 
here.  I'd  like  you  to  get  something  for  the  Christ- 
mas, and  a  cake  or  the  like  of  that  for  Norah  Kate 
and  Susy.  And  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  spending 
it — for  there's  plenty  more  where  this  comes 
from.' " 


SONNY  41 

"  My  father  and  Susy  is  gone  into  the  town," 
said  Norah  Kate ;  "  and  there's  a  grand  doll,  with 
a  pink  dress  on  her,  in  Mary  Finnegan's  shop,  and 
it's  to  be  got  for  Susy  and  me." 

"  What  signifies  the  doll,  or  the  money  either  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Cassidy.  "  It's  the  letter  I'm  thinking  of. 
Go  on  with  it  now,  your  reverence.  I'd  never  be 
tired  listening  to  it." 

" '  The  place  I'm  in,'  Sonny  wrote,  '  would  strike 
you  as  mighty  queer,  not  being  like  what  you're 
accustomed  to  at  home.  How's  father?  And  how's 
the  polly  cow?  And,  hoping  that  you're  keeping 
your  own  health, 

"'Your  loving  SONNY.'" 

"  It  was  Sonny  we  called  him,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy ; 
"  but  his  name  was  Michael  Antony." 

" '  PS.,1  I  read.  '  I  didn't  go  near  Aunt  Matilda, 
for  fear  she  might  think  I  was  wanting  something 
from  her,  which  is  what  I  wouldn't  take  if  she 
offered  it  to  me — after  the  letter  she  wrote  saying 
it  would  be  better  for  me  not  to  come  out.  But 
I'll  take  a  run  down  to  see  her  some  day  when  I'm 
through  with  the  job  I'm  at.  I  want  nothing  from 
her  now — thanks  be  to  God !  But  it  might  be  some 
time  before  I  get  going,  for  Pittsburgh's  a  long  way 
from  this — farther  than  you'd  think.' " 

"  Sonny  was  always  terrible  stubborn  and  inde- 
pendent," said  Mrs.  Cassidy.  "  Since  ever  he  was 


42  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

in  his  cradle  he'd  do  what  he  thought  fit  and  do  it 
the  way  he  chose  himself.  He'd  not  be  under  a 
compliment  to  e'er  a  one." 

I  next  heard  of  Michael  Antony  Cassidy — whom 
his  mother  called  Sonny — under  circumstances  that 
made  the  rain-swept,  desolate  Connaught  land  seem 
like  a  half-forgotten  dream.  I  was  in  the  smoking 
room  of  one  of  the  great  liners,  crossing  the  Atlantic 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  full  of  curiosity 
about  the  land  I  was  to  visit.  In  one  corner  of  the 
room  was  a  group  of  men  playing  some  card  game 
I  did  not  understand.  At  other  tables  sat  more 
men,  talking  in  a  lazy,  desultory  way.  There  is 
no  use  talking  rapidly  on  shipboard.  Why  shoot 
remarks  at  your  neighbour  when  you  have  all  day 
long  with  nothing  to  do  except  hand  them  to  him 
quietly  ? 

All  by  themselves  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
room  sat  the  only  two  men  who  seemed  to  be  in 
earnest  about  what  they  were  doing.  They  were 
playing  chess.  Their  absorption  in  the  game  must 
have  created  a  kind  of  atmosphere  round  them 
that  their  fellow  voyagers  found  distasteful.  They 
were  isolated  and  several  seats  were  vacant  near 
them.  I  sat  down  beside  them,  not  because  I  care 
much  for  chess — it  is  a  game  that  bores  me — or 
because  I  wanted  to  be  earnest;  but  because  I 
like  to  have  room  to  stretch  my  legs  and  to  spread 
my  elbows. 


SONNY  43 

I  suppose,  however,  that  their  atmosphere  influ- 
enced me  when  I  breathed  it.  I  watched  the  game 
without  knowing  or  caring  much  about  it;  but  I 
observed  the  players  with  some  interest.  They 
were  both  young  men.  They  both  had  eagerly 
intelligent  faces.  The  fact  that  they  were  not  drink- 
ing either  beer  or  coffee  convinced  me  that  they 
were  Americans.  Chess-players  of  any  other  nation 
drink  either  beer  or  coffee  while  they  play.  Ameri- 
cans seldom  drink  anything  except  iced  water  or 
cocktails — and  neither  one  nor  other  is  a  possible 
drink  while  playing  chess. 

I  guessed  they  were  university  men — possibly 
professors;  certainly  athletes.  Then  I  guessed 
again,  making  up  my  mind  that  they  were  business 
men,  with  ample  leisure  for  golf.  They  were  cer- 
tainly accustomed  to  use  their  brains.  They  cer- 
tainly lived  a  good  deal  in  the  open  air. 

The  game  came  to  an  end  before  I  guessed  any 
more.  One  of  the  players  knocked  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe  and  declared  that  he  was  going  to  bed. 
The  other  disclaimed  sleepiness  and  lit  a  cigar.  We 
began  to  talk  and — of  all  subjects  in  the  world — 
hit  on  American  politics. 

Now  politics  is  not,  in  my  opinion,  a  fit  subject 
for  conversation  anywhere.  If  you  talk  your  own 
politics — the  politics  of  your  native  land — you  are 
sure  to  lose  your  temper  or  else  the  other  man  will 
lose  his.  If  you  talk  the  politics  of  another  nation 
you  yawn  and  finally  go  to  sleep,  because  all  for- 


44  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

eign  politics,  being  quite  uncomprehensible,  are  dull. 
American  politics  are  to  me  the  dullest  of  all, 
because  I  never  get  anywhere  near  understanding 
them.  Nevertheless  it  was  American  politics  my 
keen-eyed  chess-player  talked. 

I  listened  and  gained  nothing  from  his  denuncia- 
tion of  one  party  or  the  other.  I  forget  now  which 
it  was  that  he  denounced.  At  last  I  asked  my  ques- 
tion. I  call  it  mine  because  I  have  asked  it  eighteen 
times  of  eighteen  Americans  and  got  eighteen  dif- 
ferent answers  to  it :  "  Why  is  there  no  Labour 
party  in  America — no  Labour  party  that  runs  can- 
didates in  frank  opposition  to  Republicans  and 
Democrats  alike,  as  the  English  Labour  party 
opposes  both  Conservatives  and  Liberals?" 

This  is,  I  think,  an  intelligent  question.  There 
are  labourers  in  America — immense  numbers  of 
them.  It  seems  odd  that  they  should  be  satisfied 
with  either  of  the  old-established  parties.  My  new 
friend  pondered  the  answer  for  a  minute.  Then  he 
gave  me  his  answer — a  clear-cut,  logically  complete 
answer,  which  did  not  satisfy  me  in  the  least. 

"  America,"  he  said,  "  is  a  land  of  free  opportuni- 
ties for  all.  Any  man,  no  matter  how  he  starts, 
may  become  rich." 

"  Lots  of  men  do,"  I  said.  "  Look  at and 

."  I  named  two  worthy  millionaires  who  hap- 
pened to  be  on  board  our  steamer. 

"  Well,"  said  my  friend,  "  if  a  man  thinks  he's 
going  to  be  rich — and  every  labourer  in  America 


SONNY  45 

thinks  that — he's  not  going  to  help  the  other  labour- 
ers to  combine  against  capital,  is  he?" 

I  suppose  my  face  showed  that  I  did  not  regard 
this  as  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  the  failure  of 
American  cilivisation  to  produce  a  Labour  party. 
My  friend  went  on  to  justify  his  general  statement 
by  quoting  a  particular  case. 

"  I'm  an  engineer,"  he  said,  "  and  I'm  in  charge 
of  a  big  job  away  out  in  what  you'd  call  the  wilds. 
That  section  isn't  settled  much — just  a  few  farmers 
scattered  about;  and  my  crowd  fixed  up  in  a  little 
wooden  town  the  company  built  for  them.  There 
are  a  couple  of  thousand  of  them— and  a  pretty 
tough  lot  they  are — Slavs  mostly,  with  a  sprinkling 
of  Italians.  Scum ! " 

He  spoke  the  last  word  with  venom  that  sur- 
prised me  in  a  citizen  of  the  land  of  human  equal- 
ity— the  land  that  fought  to  secure  the  negro  his 
rights  as  a  man  and  a  brother. 

"  Some  time  ago,"  he  went  on,  "  we  had  trouble 
with  them — not  a  strike;  it  doesn't  come  to  that 
— just  trouble  over  some  agreement  the  company 
made  the  men  sign.  I'm  not  saying  it  was  quite  a 
legal  agreement,  for  it  wasn't;  but  it  was  good 
enough  and  nobody  lost  by  it.  Well,  the  trouble 
wouldn't  have  amounted  to  much  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  a  big,  husky  Russian — a  sulky  devil  of  a  man 
who  started  talking  about  knifing  the  company's 
officers,  chiefly  me. 

"1  knew  what  was  going  on,  but  I  didn't  see 


46  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

my  way  to  stop  it.  I  just  slept  with  a  gun  handy 
and  kept  my  eyes  open  during  the  day.  I  watched 
that  Russian  pretty  close.  You  can't  blame  a  Rus- 
sian, of  course,  for  wanting  to  knife  people.  Mur- 
der seems  to  be  the  only  way  of  getting  the 
necessary  reforms  in  their  country,  and  this  fellow 
wasn't  long  out  of  it.  All  the  same,  I  didn't  want 
to  be  an  innocent  victim." 

I  think  my  engineer  friend  showed  a  nice  spirit 
in  making  excuses  for  the  Russian. 

"  Well,  one  day  the  whole  conspiracy  just  got 
bursted.  There  was  a  little  Irishman — the  only  one 
we  had  in  the  whole  crowd,  for  the  Irish  are  a  bit 
above  that  kind  of  work  now.  The  Russian  was 
making  a  speech  one  evening  and  the  rest  of  the 
men  were  cheering  him.  He  was  a  big  brute,  well 
over  six  feet  high.  I  was  a  football  player  when  I 
was  in  college,  but  I  don't  mind  owning  that  I 
should  have  thought  twice  before  engaging  in  a 
scrap  with  that  Russian. 

"  My  little  Irishman  didn't  think  more  than  once. 
He  walked  right  up  to  the  Russian,  and  when  he 
was  standing  in  front  of  him  he  didn't  reach  up 
beyond  where  the  top  button  of  the  Russian's 
waistcoat  would  have  been  if  he'd  had  a  waistcoat. 
'  Listen  to  me  now,  son  ! '  said  the  Irishman  :  '  Just 
you  can  that  talk  about  knives  and  killing.  It's 
not  wanted  here.'  The  Russian  kind  of  collapsed, 
and  that  was  the  end  of  our  labour  trouble." 

"  It's  an  interesting  story,"  I  said ;   "  but  I  don't 


SONNY  47 

quite  see  what  it  has  to  do  with  the  curious  fact 
that  there's  no  effective  Labour  party  in  America." 

"  It's  got  this  to  do  with  it :  Cassidy  expects  to 
be  a  capitalist  some  day — and  he  doesn't  want  any 
Russian  coming  round  and  knifing  him  when  the 
time  comes.  See  that?" 

I  did  not  even  try  to  see  it.  The  matter  had 
ceased,  for  the  moment,  to  interest  me.  My  atten- 
tion was  fixed  on  the  Irishman's  name. 

"Did  you  say  Cassidy?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes.  And  if  you  look  out  you'll  see  that  name 
on  the  list  of  first-class  passengers  on  one  of  these 
boats  pretty  soon.  He'll  be  down  as  having  engaged 
a  suite  of  rooms  on  B  Deck." 

"  Was  he  by  any  chance  called  Michael  Antony?  " 
I  asked. 

"  The  men  called  him  Mick,"  said  my  friend ;  but 
of  course,  that's  common  with  all  Irishmen.  Now 
I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  believe  it  was  Michael 
Antony  he  wrote  when  he  signed  as  an  overseer.  I 
made  him  overseer  after  he  laid  out  the  Russian." 

"That,"  I  said,  "was  probably  last  November." 

"It  was — sure.    But  how  did  you  guess?" 

"  I  happened  to  hear  another  part  of  the  same  story 
from  his  mother,"  I  said.  "  It  was  Sonny  she  called 
him,  but  his  real  name  was  Michael  Antony." 

"  Sonny  or  Micky,"  said  my  friend,  "  the  name 
will  be  worth  having  on  the  bottom  of  a  cheque 
some  day  soon.  That  little  Irishman  will  make 
good !  He's  got  grit ! " 


III.— ONNIE  DEVER 

ONNIE  is  a  girl's  name  and  it  is  not  a  mis- 
pronunciation of  Annie.  It  is  a  convenient 
shortening  of  Honoria,  which  is  far  too  majestic  a 
name  for  a  child. 

It  would  have  been  grotesque  to  call  Onnie  Dever 
Honoria  when  I  knew  her  first — though  the  long 
name  would  suit  her  very  well  now. 

Indeed  she  is  so  grand  now  that  I  should  not 
dare  to  call  her  anything  but  Miss  Dever;  and  if 
I  had  to  address  a  letter  to  her  my  inclination  would 
be  to  embellish  her  name  and  write  on  the  outside 
of  the  envelope:  The  Honourable  Honoria — or  to 
Her  Honour,  Honoria  Dever.  This  would  be 
wrong,  of  course;  but  any  one  who  has  seen  the 
lady  lately  would  find  it  excusable. 

When  Onnie  Dever  was  young  she  lived  with  her 
parents  and  a  great  many  other  little  Devers  on 
an  island  off  the  coast  of  Connaught,  which  is  the 
poorest  of  the  four  provinces  of  Ireland.  The 
Atlantic  Ocean  washes  the  shores  of  Connaught, 
and  Onnie's  home  was  an  island  in  that  great  sea. 
It  was  not,  however,  a  very  remote  island.  Only 
a  narrow  channel  separated  it  from  the  mainland, 
and  this  channel  went  nearly  dry  at  the  bottom 

48 


ONNIE  DEVER  49 

of  a  low  tide.  At  the  age  of  five — and  legs  are 
very  short  at  the  age  of  five — Onnie  could  splash 
across  the  channel  when  a  spring  tide  was  at  its 
ebb. 

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  take  off  her  shoes 
and  stockings,  for  in  those  days  she  never  wore 
any.  When  the  tide  was  high  the  water  in  the 
channel  was  fifteen  feet  deep,  and  the  only  way 
of  getting  to  the  mainland  was  by  boat. 

The  island  was  a  very  small  one.  It  had  two 
little  cottages  on  it.  One  belonged  to  Onnie's 
father,  whose  name  was  Tom  Dever;  the  other  to 
her  uncle,  who  was  John  Dever.  John  had  nine 
children,  and  among  them  a  Honoria,  also  called 
Onnie.  This  might  have  been  confusing  elsewhere, 
but  in  Connaught  we  have  a  way  of  getting  over 
the  difficulty  of  these  similarities  of  name. 

Tom's  daughter  was  called  Onnie  Dever  Tom, 
and  the  other  girl  was  Onnie  Dever  John.  It  was 
thus  that  their  names  were  entered  in  the  register 
of  the  school  they  attended.  And  the  school  regis- 
ter is  a  solemn  book  inspected  from  time  to  time 
by  a  Government  official — a  book  in  which  no  one 
would  venture  to  perpetrate  a  slang  phrase  or 
indulge  in  a  joke.  It  is  with  Onnie  Dever  Tom 
that  I  am  how  concerned. 

The  children  of  the  two  families,  some  eight  or 
ten  of  them  at  a  time,  went  to  school  on  the  main- 
land. John  and  Tom  took  turns  in  ferrying  them 
across  the  channel.  When  the  time  came  for  their 


50  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

return  they  stood  in  a  group  on  the  opposite  shore 
and  shouted  until  either  John  or  Tom  put  out  in 
a  boat  and  ferried  them  home. 

At  very  high  tides  the  boat  ran  aground  close  up 
to  Tom  Dever's  house,  and  an  active  child  stand- 
ing in  the  bow  could  jump  right  into  the  kitchen 
through  the  doorway — could  almost  have  jumped 
into  bed ;  but  tides  are  as  high  as  that  only  in 
March  and  September.  During  the  rest  of  the  year 
there  is  a  small  patch  of  beach  to  cross,  even  at 
full  tide. 

When  I  first  met  Onnie  she  must  have  been  four- 
teen or  fifteen  years  of  age.  She  had  stopped  going 
to  school.  Her  education  was  then  complete ;  for 
she  had  reached  what  is  called  the  sixth  standard, 
and  that  is  as  far  as  the  Irish  educational  authori- 
ties think  a  normal  child  ought  to  go. 

At  that  time  she  possessed  shoes  and  stockings, 
but  wore  them  only  on  Sundays  when  she  crossed 
to  the  mainland  to  go  to  church.  The  rest  of  the 
week  she  went  barefooted,  which  was  an  economy 
for  her  parents  and  a  convenience  to  herself.  If 
you  live  on  an  island  that,  as  well  as  being  sur- 
rounded by,  is  also  saturated  with,  water,  it  is  much 
better  to  do  without  shoes  and  stockings. 

I  was  sailing  in  a  small  boat,  and  the  passage 
between  the  Devers'  island  and  the  mainland  offered 
me  a  short  cut  home.  The  tide  was  ebbing,  and 
the  wind  was  very  light.  I  knew  I  ought  not  to 
try  the  passage — that  there  probably  would  not  be 


ONNIE  DEVER  51 

water  enough  for  my  boat;  but  I  allowed  myself 
to  be  tempted,  hoping  I  might  creep  through. 

The  luck  was  all  against  me.  The  tide  swept  me 
down  to  a  submerged  rock.  I  heard  the  ominous 
banging  of  my  centreboard.  I  hauled  it  up  hur- 
riedly. My  boat,  deprived  of  her  power  of  going 
to  windward,  drifted  sideways  to  the  shore.  I  made 
desperate  efforts  to  push  her  off  and  failed.  The 
tide,  ebbing  swiftly,  left  my  boat  high  and  dry. 
I  looked  up  and  saw  Onnie  standing  on  the  shore 
grinning. 

I  had  to  wait  until  the  tide  rose  again.  I  am 
bound  to  say  the  time  passed  very  pleasantly. 
Onnie  was  alone  on  the  island,  except  for  the  young- 
est of  John's  children,  who  was  a  baby  and  lay 
placidly  in  a  cradle  near  the  fire.  Onnie's  father 
and  mother,  and  John  and  his  wife,  had  gone  to 
our  town  to  attend  a  fair.  All  the  other  children 
were  at  school.  Onnie — that  is,  of  course,  Onnie 
Tom — had  been  left  to  take  care  of  the  island  and 
the  baby.  I  imagine  she  must  have  found  her 
work  dull,  for  she  seemed  really  pleased  to  see  me. 
She  immediately  offered  to  make  tea  for  me. 

I  got  the  sails  off  my  boat  and  followed  her  into 
the  cottage.  I  realised  almost  at  once  that  Onnie 
was  a  young  woman  with  a  future  before  her.  She 
displayed  a  surprising  efficiency  in  making  tea.  The 
fire  was  almost  out  when  we  entered  the  cottage. 
Onnie  had  it  blazing  round  the  kettle  in  a  couple 
of  minutes.  She  got  out  her  mother's  best  cups 


52  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

and  saucers.  She  cut  slices  of  bread  from  a  home- 
baked  loaf,  laid  them  flat  along  the  palm  of  her  hand 
and  buttered  them  lavishly. 

All  the  time  she  was  at  work  she  talked  to  me 
without  shyness  or  embarrassment.  Her  subject 
was,  of  course,  ready  to  hand  and  a  tempting  one 
— my  stupidity  in  not  getting  my  boat  through  the 
passage.  In  Onnie's  opinion  the  thing  could  have 
been  done.  She  explained  to  me  with  force  exactly 
where  my  seamanship  had  been  at  fault. 

From  that  we  passed  to  the  subject  of  boats  in 
general,  and  the  shortcomings  of  my  particular  boat. 
She  happened  to  be  a  vessel  of  which  I  was  both 
proud  and  fond.  Onnie  found  out  what  my  feelings 
were,  and  took  the  greatest  pleasure  in  hurting 
them.  This  lasted  until  we  had  both  finished  tea. 
Then  Onnie  asked  me  whether  I  would  like  a  lob- 
ster to  take  home  with  me.  She  said  she  knew  of 
a  hole  in  which  there  was  generally  a  lobster  lying. 

We  went  out  together  to  look  for  the  lobster.  No 
man  of  proper  feelings  would  allow  a  young  lady 
— it  was  as  a  young  lady  and  not  as  a  child  that  I 
had  come  to  think  of  Onnie — to  wade  knee-deep 
after  a  fierce  shellfish  while  he  sat  dry-footed  on 
the  shore.  I  took  off  my  shoes  and  socks  and  fol- 
lowed Onnie  into  the  middle  of  the  channel.  I  hurt 
my  feet  a  good  deal  and  got  very  wet.  Onnie  gath- 
ered her  single  petticoat  out  of  reach  of  the  water, 
rolled  up  her  sleeves  and  plunged  her  arms  elbow- 
deep  among  the  seaweed. 


ONNIE  DEVER  53 

She  brought  out  a  lobster  that  had  been  lying — 
secure,  it  thought — under  a  ledge  of  rock.  It  flapped 
its  tail  furiously  and  made  grabs  in  the  air  with  its 
claws.  Onnie  held  it  by  the  middle  of  its  back  and 
laughed  at  its  struggles. 

I  carried  that  lobster  home  with  me  and  ate  it. 
If  I  had  known  how  great  a  lady  Onnie  was  going 
to  become  afterwards  I  should  have  had  the  lobster 
stuffed  and  put  in  a  glass  case,  so  as  to  be  able  to 
offer  it  as  evidence  of  the  fact  that  I  had  been  on 
intimate  terms  with  Miss  Dever  in  her  early  youth. 

The  next  time  I  saw  Onnie  was  two  years  later, 

and  she  was  again  in  pursuit  of  shellfish.  It  was 
a  very  calm  summer  day  and  I  was  far  out  in  the 
bay  in  my  boat.  The  tide  was  a  spring  tide — one 
of  those  that  come  in  a  long  way  and  go  out  until 
one  thinks  the  sea  will  disappear  altogether.  It  was 
at  its  ebb  at  noon. 

There  is  in  our  bay,  beyond  the  farthest  of  the 
islands,  a  long  reef  of  rocks  which  is  well  covered 
at  half  tide.  It  is  just  awash  at  the  ebb  of  an  ordi- 
nary tide,  but  emerges  long  and  brown  for  a  couple 
of  hours  when  the  spring  tides  have  gone  out  their 
farthest.  I  slipped  down  towards  this  reef  about 
noon,  sailing  free,  with  a  gentle  breeze  on  my 
quarter.  A  boat — a  large,  heavy  black  boat — lay 
with  her  bows  out  of  the  water  at  the  end  of  the 
reef. 

Among  the  rocks,  scattered  here  and  there,  were 


54  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

eight  or  ten  girls,  barefooted,  bareheaded,  and  bare- 
armed.  Each  of  them  had  a  tin  can.  They  were 
gathering  periwinkles  among  the  pools.  I  could 
hear  their  voices  as  they  shouted  to  each  other.  I 
bore  slowly  down  on  them  and  then,  hauling  my 
wind,  circled  round  the  outer  side  of  the  reef.  I 
recognised  Onnie  Dever,  most  eager  picker  of  all  of 
them — busiest  gathering  the  periwinkles;  busiest 
at  shouting  jests ;  readiest  with  her  laughter. 

I  drew  past  the  reef  and  sailed  away  reflecting 
on  the  fate  of  the  periwinkles.  Dragged  from  their 
cool  and  pleasant  homes  they  would  be  measured 
out  in  pints  and  quarts,  paid  for  by  the  man  who 
bought  them  with  sixpences  and  shillings,  which 
would  go  to  buy  ribbons  for  Onnie  and  her  friends. 
Then,  boiled  and  packed  in  huge  cases,  they  would 
go  to  Manchester  and  to  Warrington — to  any  of 
the  group  of  smoke-grimed  Lancashire  towns  where 
cotton  is  spun.  There  they  would  be  piled  in  street 
barrows,  with  green  labels  stuck  on  them,  and  sold 
to  pallid  women  to  be  eaten  as  a  relish — picked 
from  their  shells  with  a  pin  and  poised  on  slices  of 
bread  and  margarine. 

It  seemed  a  far  cry  from  our  sunny  bay  to  the 
flare-lit  market-place  of  Bolton  on  a  Saturday  night 
— a  great  change  from  the  sound  of  the  laughter 
of  merry  girls  to  the  raucous  cries  of  the  vendors. 
Such,  I  reflected,  are  the  tricks  that  fate  plays  with 
us  in  life.  As  is  the  periwinkle  so  is  the  man — 
a  card  in  a  pack  shuffled  by  a  sportive  destiny. 


ONNIE  DEVER  55 

Sailing  on  summer  seas  leads  naturally  to  facile 
philosophy;  but,  lest  I  should  sentimentalise  help- 
lessly and  lose  my  self-respect,  I  put  my  boat  about 
and  stood  back  towards  the  reef. 

The  girls  were  crowding  into  their  boat  when  I 
reached  them.  Already  the  rising  tide  had  covered 
most  of  the  rocks,  and  left  only  the  higher  ones 
standing  up  like  islands  in  a  kind  of  Saragasso  Sea 
of  swaying  brown  weed.  Onnie  was  the  last  to 
embark;  giving  one  final  shove-off  with  her  foot 
she  slid  across  the  bow  of  the  boat,  climbed  stern- 
ward  and  took  the  stroke  oar. 

Six  of  the  girls  rowed,  keeping  time  and  stroke 
with  Onnie.  When  she  started  a  song  for  them 
their  bodies  swung  with  her  music.  The  breeze 
had  nearly  died  away.  The  row-boat,  with  its 
sturdy  pullers,  soon  distanced  me;  but  for  a  long 
time  I  heard  the  girls'  songs  and  fancied  that  I 
could  distinguish  Onnie's  voice  clear  above  the 
others. 

In  December  of  that  year  I  saw  Onnie  Dever 
again  under  far  different  circumstances.  It  was  at 
the  railway  station,  and  it  chanced  to  be  the  day 
of  the  week  on  which  the  emigrants  start  in  order 
to  catch  the  transatlantic  steamer  at  Queenstown. 
In  those  days  the  tide  of  Irish  emigration  still  ran 
strong,  and  it  was  worth  the  while  of  even  the  larg- 
est liners  to  call  at  Queenstown. 

The  scene  on  these  occasions  at  our  railroad  sta- 
tion is  one  to  which  the  experience  of  twenty  years 


56  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

has  not  been  able  to  make  me  indifferent.  The 
pain  and  heartbreak  of  it  are  as  keen  to-day  as  they 
were  when  first  I  saw  it.  On  the  platform  are 
women — old  women  for  the  most  part,  mothers  and 
grandmothers — weeping  without  restraint.  Their 
eyes  are  swollen;  their  cheeks  are  tear-stained. 
Every  now  and  then  one  of  them  wails  aloud,  and 
the  others,  catching  the  sound,  wail  with  her,  their 
voices  rising  and  falling  in  a  weird  melody,  like 
the  Church's  ancient  plain  song. 

The  men  stand  more  silent;  but  very  often  their 
eyes  are  wet,  too.  Their  lips,  tightly  pressed,  twitch 
spasmodically.  Occasionally  an  uncontrollable  sob 
breaks  from  one  of  them. 

The  windows  of  the  railway  carriages  are 
crowded  with  the  faces  of  boys  and  girls,  all  of 
them  weeping  with  the  helpless  abandonment  of 
sheer  despair.  The  engine  whistles.  There  is  a 
rush  to  the  carriage  windows.  Faces  and  hands 
are  thrust  out  of  them.  There  is  a  frenzied  press- 
ing of  lips  to  lips,  a  clinging  of  fingers  intertwined, 
until  some  railway  official,  mercifully  brutal,  by 
main  force  pushes  the  people  back. 

The  train  moves  slowly  and  gathers  speed.  A 
long,  sad  cry  comes  from  the  people  left  behind, 
swelling  to  a  pitch  of  actual  agony,  until  some 
brave  soul  somewhere  in  the  crowd  chokes  down 
a  sob,  waves  his  hat,  and  makes  a  pretence  to 
cheer. 

That  day  I  saw  among  the  crowd  on  the  plat- 


ONNIE  DEVER  57 

form  Tom  Dever  and  his  wife.  They  were  both 
weeping.  I  looked  at  the  window  of  the  carriage 
in  front  of  them  and  saw  Onnie. 

Alone  among  the  crowd  of  departing  girls  she 
was  not  crying.  Her  face  was  very  pale.  Her 
eyes,  unnaturally  large,  seemed  full  of  the  sorrow 
of  farewell ;  but  her  head  was  proudly  posed. 
She  stood  upright  while  the  others  stooped  or 
crouched. 

I  felt  a  sudden  thrill.  The  girl  was  going  out 
into  a  wide,  strange  world,  sad,  but  not  in  despair 
— going  to  win  through,  to  conquer,  not  to  be 
beaten.  From  the  carriage  in  which  I  sat  I  heard 
the  last  loud  cry  as  the  train  moved  out — the  bless- 
ing, "  God  be  with  you,  and  good  luck !  " — the  piti- 
ful cheer;  and  then  Onnie's  voice,  clear  above  the 
wailing : 

"Good-bye!    Good-bye!" 

I  bade  farewell  to  Onnie  an  hour  later  when  I 
left  the  train  at  the  station  where  I  had  to  stop. 
I  asked  her  whether  she  wanted  to  go  to  America 
or  would  rather  have  stayed  at  home.  Her  answer 
seemed  to  me  characteristic  of  the  fatalism  of  our 
people. 

"  Sure,  it  was  before  me  anyway,"  she  said ;  "  and 
it  might  as  well  be  now  as  some  other  time.  What 
was  there  for  me  at  home? — only  the  daylight." 

There  was,  of  course,  more  than  the  daylight. 
There  were  lobsters  in  that  cleft  of  the  rock,  to  be 
hauled  out  of  it  when  the  tide  was  low.  I  reminded 


58  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Onnie  of  the  lobster  she  once  caught  for  me  and  she 
smiled  wanly.  There  were  also  periwinkles  among 
the  pools  on  the  outlying  reef.  Onnie  remembered 
them  well  enough. 

"  It  was  out  of  the  price  of  them,"  she  said,  "  that 
I  made  the  money  to  pay  my  passage — what  was 
wanted  along  with  what  my  aunt  sent  home.  I 
made  a  deal  out  of  the  periwinkles  last  summer." 

So  it  was  for  a  ticket  to  America  and  not  for 
ribbons  that  the  money  went;  but  it  must  have 
been  hard  to  save  enough! 

"  I  kept  what  I  got,"  said  Onnie ;  "  and  along 
with  the  few  shillings  I  had  in  the  Post  Office  Sav- 
ings Bank  I  had  enough  to  buy  what  clothes  was 
wanted.  Do  you  mind  the  shilling  you  gave  me 
the  day  I  made  the  cup  of  tea  for  you?  Well,  that 
was  the  first  shilling  ever  I  had  of  my  own ;  and  I 
put  it  in  the  savings  bank." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me "  I  said. 

I  got  no  further,  for  the  train  started  and  Onnie 
was  borne  away  from  me.  I  am  no  stranger  to  the 
power  of  saving  possessed  by  the  West  of  Ireland 
peasants.  It  no  longer  surprises  me  to  find  that 
some  small  farmer,  who  has  lived  all  his  life  in 
extreme  penury,  leaves  fortunes  of  fifty  pounds  each 
to  his  three  daughters  when  he  dies — money  gath- 
ered well-nigh  penny  by  penny  through  many 
years;  and  his  at  the  end  by  virtue  of  an  amazing 
power  of  not  spending;  but  I  confess  that  Onnie's 
hoarding  startled  me. 


ONNIE  DEVER  59 

I  thought  of  her  laughing  among  the  rocks  of  the 
reef,  with  the  sunlight  in  her  hair.  I  thought  of 
her  singing  in  the  boat  as  she  and  the  others  rowed 
home.  I  have  heard  of  girls  singing  blithely  over 
their  wheels  as  they  spun  flax  for  their  bridal  linen ; 
but  no  man  ever  yet  heard  of  a  girl  singing  over 
the  making  of  her  shroud!  Yet,  if  Onnie  worked 
all  summer  in  order  to  make  money  to  take  her  to 
America,  it  must  have  been  for  her  very  like  the 
sewing  of  a  shroud. 

It  is  thus,  at  all  events,  that  the  mothers  of  our 
Irish  boys  and  girls  think  about  the  emigration  to 
America. 

"  I've  had  seven  children,"  one  of  them  will  say, 
"  and  I've  lost  five  of  them.  Two  of  them  I  buried 
and  three  are  gone  to  America." 

And  yet  Onnie  sang  over  the  business  merrily! 
I  went  my  way,  wondering  what  the  future  had 
hidden  in  it  for  her  and  what  America  would  make 
of  her. 

I  do  not  know  the  end — the  final  achievement  of 
Onnie  Dever;  but  chance  gave  me  a  glimpse  of 
her  halfway  through  her  career.  I  was  in  one  of 
the  large  cities  of  the  Middle  West,  a  place  that 
boasts  about  its  progress  with  boasting  that  is 
entirely  justified.  It  is  a  city  that  has  gone  ahead 
fast  in  the  last  fifteen  years,  and  which  is  destined, 
I  imagine,  to  go  faster  yet,  and  to  go  very  far. 
My  wife  was  with  me,  and  certain  needs  of  hers 


60  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

took  us  into  a  large  department  store.  We  found — 
I  ought  to  say  she  found — the  required  garment  or 
something  very  like  it. 

There  was  a  question  of  certain  alterations.  I, 
who  have  no  taste  for  the  details  of  a  woman's 
dress  and  am  useless  as  an  adviser  on  the  hang  of 
a  skirt  or  the  set  of  a  frill,  retired  to  some  distance. 
I  took  my  stand  beside  the  gate  of  the  lift. 

Just  as  I  left  the  scene  of  action  I  heard  the  very 
grandly  dressed  young  lady  who  had  attended  to 
our  wants  offering  to  send  for  the  head  of  the 
department.  I  turned  away  and  found  an  agreeable 
employment  for  my  time  in  explaining  to  the  man 
who  worked  the  lift  that  I  did  not  want  to  go  either 
up  or  down. 

He  passed  frequently,  for  there  were  many  cus- 
tomers in  the  store,  and  I  had  to  repeat  my  explana- 
tion every  time  he  reached  my  floor.  He  appeared 
to  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  any  one  would 
stand  opposite  the  gate  of  the  cage  merely  for  the 
fun  of  watching  him,  and  every  time  he  saw  me 
he  stopped  and  invited  me  to  go  with  him.  After 
a  while  he  began  to  lose  his  temper  with  me,  and 
I  thought  it  better  to  turn  my  back  on  him  and 
look  the  other  way. 

Standing  beside  my  wife,  explaining  to  her  the 
beauties  of  a  certain  evening  gown,  was  Onnie 
Dever  Tom.  I  recognised  her  at  the  first  glance. 
A  second  look  made  me  doubtful.  A  long  stare  and 


ONNIE  DEVER  61 

some  thought  convinced  me  that  I  must  be 
wrong. 

In  the  first  place,  the  lady  who  handled  the  silken 
flounces  of  the  gown  her  subordinate  held  for  her 
looked  six  inches  taller  than  I  remembered  Onnie 
to  have  been.  Long,  narrow  skirts,  especially  when 
very  well  cut,  produce  this  illusion  of  height.  When 
last  I  had  a  good  look  at  Onnie  she  was  wearing 
a  crimson  petticoat  that  reached  very  little  below 
her  knees.  She  certainly  did  not  look  tall  then. 

The  dressing  of  the  hair  is  also  a  disturbing  thing. 
Onnie's,  even  when  she  was  in  the  train  on  her  way 
to  the  steamer,  hung  down  her  back  in  a  long,  thick 
pigtail.  The  fashion  of  ladies'  hair-doing  is  not  to 
be  described  by  any  words  in  the  English  language. 
I  suppose  I  must  use  a  French  word  and  say  that 
the  coiffure  of  the  chief  of  this  department  puzzled 
me ;  but  most  perplexing  of  all  was  the  look  of  calm 
authority  on  her  face. 

Onnie  Dever,  even  in  her  tenderest  years,  had 
a  masterful  way  with  her.  I  remembered  how  she 
had  once  lectured  me  on  the  management  of  boats, 
and  how  she  held  the  flapping  lobster  at  arm's 
length ;  but  mere  masterful  self-assertiveness  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  settled  authority.  Most 
fools  are  self-assertive;  but  it  is  only  the  few  men 
and  women  who  have  some  strength  of  real  wisdom 
in  them  who  can  reduce  those  round  them  to  sub- 
missiveness,  and  it  is  the  power  of  really  ruling 
others  that  gives  the  look  of  authority  to  the  face. 


62  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

My  reason  told  me  that  the  young  lady  before  me 
could  not  possibly  be  Onnie  Dever ;  but  a  shadowy 
resemblance  haunted  me.  I  ventured  back  to  the 
group  round  the  gown  and  listened  from  a  little 
distance  to  the  description  of  its  merits  given  in  a 
high-pitched,  far-carrying  American  voice — a  voice 
the  tones  of  which  were  as  different  as  possible 
from  the  cooing  murmurings  of  our  Connaught 
speech.  Certainly  this  was  not  Onnie  Dever! 

Then  she  looked  up  and  saw  me.  There  was  a 
sudden  flash  of  recognition  in  her  glance,  and  I 
knew  that,  after  all,  my  first  impression  was  the 
right  one. 

"  That  gown,"  I  said  "  would  not  be  at  all  suit- 
able for  going  to  catch  lobsters  in." 

It  was  a  flimsy  affair,  with  gold  beads  on  it,  and 
a  kind  of  outer  skin  of  very  transparent  material 
called,  I  believe,  chiffon.  Onnie  and  her  attendant 
saleswoman  both  spoke  at  once  in  reply  to  my 
criticism. 

"  It  would  not ! "  said  Onnie.  "  I'd  be  sorry  for 
the  one  who  was  fool  enough  to  try  for  a  lobster 
at  Carrigwee  with  a  dress  the  like  of  that  on  her ! " 

This  time  her  voice  had  the  true  Connaught 
intonation.  She  framed  her  sentences  as  all  good 
Connaught  girls  should.  She  also  grinned.  Grin 
is,  of  course,  a  wrong  word  to  use  about  a  stately 
lady;  but  I  run  the  risk  of  using  it  because  her 
mouth  took  on  the  same  expression  exactly  that 


ONNIE   DEVER  63 

Onnie  Dever's  wore  when  she  stood  on  the  shore 
and  watched  me  run  my  boat  aground. 

The  assistant  saleswoman  neither  grinned  nor 
smiled — she  sniffed. 

"  This  is  a  dinner  dress,"  she  said ;  "  but  if  madam 
wants  a  golfing  costume  we  have  some  rough 
tweeds " 

It  is  not  easy  to  guess  why  the  mention  of  the 
lobster  should  have  suggested  golf  to  this  damsel's 
mind.  The  word  sport  no  doubt  covers  many 
things,  and  golf  among  them ;  but  it  can  hardly  be 
stretched  to  include  the  dragging  of  lobsters  out  of 
rocky  holes  along  the  shore. 

She  was  never  allowed  to  explain  what  her  idea 
was.  Miss  Honoria  Dever  glanced  at  her.  With- 
out saying  another  word,  without  hearing  one,  the 
girl  laid  the  dinner  dress  down  on  the  chair  and 
faded  away.  Such  is  the  discipline  maintained  by 
the  competent  head  of  a  department  in  a  great 
store. 

Then  Onnie  Dever  Tom,  no  longer  Honoria, 
turned  to  me  with  a  flood  of  questions.  I  had  to 
tell  her  a  hundred  intimate  details  about  men  and 
things — how  this  one  was  dead  and  that  one  mar- 
ried; how  one  cottage,  known  to  both  of  us,  was 
thatched  last  summer,  and  another  had  a  new  door ; 
what  boats  caught  mackerel,  what  hookers  brought 
loads  of  winter  fuel.  For  nearly  an  hour  the  busi- 
ness of  selling  ladies'  dresses  in  that  store  was  either 


64  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

held  up  or  conducted  without  the  knowledge  of 
the  head  of  the  department. 

When  Onnie  had  finished  her  questions,  I  began 
mine,  and  I  heard  a  very  interesting  story.  It  began 
with  the  adventures  of  a  girl  who  did  odd  jobs  of 
sewing  for  a  man  who  specialised  in  the  manu- 
facture of  cheap  shirt  waists.  It  went  on  with  an 
account  of  the  struggles  of  a  junior  assistant  taken 
on  one  Christmastime  to  assist  at  the  "  notions " 
counter.  It  reached  at  last  the  daily  life  of  Miss 
Honoria  Dever,  head  of  the  costume  department, 
responsible  for  the  fashion  of  the  clothes  of  half  of 
the  smartest  women  in  the  city — leader  and  com- 
mander of  a  regiment  of  some  thirty  young  women, 
all  bound  to  sell,  to  fit,  to  advise,  to  sew— even,  I 
imagine,  to  dress  as  Miss  Honoria  bade  them. 

She  told  me  the  salary  she  earned ;  and  I,  dividing 
her  dollars  by  five,  assured  her  that  no  man  who 
lived  anywhere  round  the  shores  of  our  bay — not 
the  doctor;  not  the  lawyer;  not  the  priest — was 
earning  so  much  as  she  was.  Then  she  confided  to 
me  that  she  had  not  reached  yet  the  end  of  her 
career.  There  were  heights  to  be  climbed. 

There  are  buyers  who  visit  New  York  in  the  sea- 
son when  the  form  and  colour  of  clothes  are  decided 
on  by  the  ultimate,  remote  authorities  who  settle 
these  things.  There  are  buyers  who  go  out  from 
New  York  itself  to  London  and  Paris,  crossing  the 
Atlantic  once  or  twice  a  year,  who,  by  virtue  of 
some  strange  instinct  for  raiment,  can  be  trusted  to 


ONNIE  DEVER  65 

guess  in  December  what  fabrics  American  women 
will  want  to  buy  in  May. 

Some  day  Miss  Honoria  will  do  this  work — will, 
I  feel  tolerably  certain,  be  at  the  very  head  of  the 
elect  corps  of  those  who  do  it ;  will  guess  more  bril- 
liantly than  the  others;  will  buy  with  more  infalli- 
ble certainty  that  what  she  buys  will  be  sold  again. 

Here  I  am  left  wondering!  If  Onnie  Dever  had 
remained  at  home  she  would,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  time,  have  married.  In  some  tiny  windswept 
cabin  on  an  island  she  would  have  ministered  to  the 
wants  of  a  man  who  returned  to  her  day  after  day, 
wet  and  weary  from  toiling  on  the  sea.  She  herself 
would  have  toiled,  sometimes  standing  knee-deep 
in  water  beside  a  stranded  boat  while  the  creel  on 
her  back  was  filled  with  turf. 

She  would  have  staggered  under  her  burden  up 
the  stony  beach  time  after  time,  until  the  autumn 
darkness  closed  round  her,  and  built  her  stack  of 
fuel  against  the  coming  of  the  winter  days.  She 
would  have  baked  great  brown-crusted  loaves  in 
pot  ovens.  She  would  have  dragged  scanty  milk 
from  the  udders  of  lean  cows.  She  would  have 
cleaned  and  salted  the  fish  her  husband  caught  and 
hung  them  in  the  reek  of  the  fire's  smoke  to  dry. 
She  would  have  patched  shirts  and  trousers  pain- 
fully until  patch  was  joined  to  patch  and  the  origi- 
nal fabric  was  no  more  than  a  memory.  She  would 
have  gone  barefooted,  with  splayed,  misshapen  feet, 


66  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

down  among  the  boulders  of  the  upper  beach  to 
bring  water  from  a  brackish  well. 

She  would  have  lost  the  fresh  beauty  of  girlhood 
very  speedily  and  ceased  after  a  little  while  to  care 
greatly  that  her  hands  were  rough,  her  face  weather- 
beaten  and  her  figure  ungainly.  The  other  life,  the 
one  she  has  chosen,  is  better  than  that. 

And  yet  I  wonder!  Onnie  would  have  borne 
children.  Year  after  year,  for  many  years  perhaps, 
a  fresh  baby  would  have  ousted  the  old  one  from 
its  cradle.  Boys  and  girls  would  have  clung  about 
her  skirts  and  clamoured  in  her  ears.  Slapped  and 
kissed,  scolded  and  caressed,  they  would  have  been 
a  plague  and  a  joy  to  her.  She  would  have  watched 
them  grow  to  be  men  and  women  brave  and  strong. 
She  would  have  known  that  life,  the  great  insistent 
need  of  the  universe,  was  going  forth  from  her. 

Which,  after  all,  is  best?  Which  achievement 
gives  most  satisfaction  to  look  back  on  after  all  is 
over.  I  said  good-bye  to  Onnie — still  wondering. 


IV.— SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS 
I 

VERY  soon  after  her  husband's  death,  things 
began  to  go  wrong  with  Mrs.  Flanagan.  She 
had  "  a  long,  weak  family,"  which  was  against  her. 
Eight  children  she  had,  and  the  six  eldest  of  them 
were  girls,  who  were  little  good  on  the  land. 
Labouring  men  were  expensive  to  hire,  and  impos- 
sible to  get  when  they  were  most  wanted.  Cattle 
sickened  and  died  mysteriously.  The  old  mare  got 
feeble ;  the  young  mare  broke  her  leg  in  a  bog-hole. 
Year  after  year  the  pigs  brought  no  price,  and  feed- 
ing stuff  was  dear.  For  five  years  the  widow 
struggled  on  in  an  incompetent  manner  against 
impossible  circumstances.  Then  she  collapsed. 

She  owed  four  years'  rent  to  the  agent,  and  she 
owed  a  sum  which  did  not  bear  thinking  of  to 
Patrick  Sweeny,  Mr.  Patrick  Sweeny,  Esq.,  J.P., 
D.C.,  who  kept  the  shop.  The  statement  of  the 
amount  of  this  debt  brought  a  weakness  on  Mrs. 
Flanagan  when  it  arrived  by  post,  a  weakness  from 
which  she  did  not  rally  for  more  than  a  week.  It 
was  impossible  to  believe  that  the  Indian  meal,  on 
which  she  fed  her  children  and  her  chickens,  the 
occasional  lock  of  seed  potatoes,  the  bag  or  two  of 
patent  fertiliser,  the  grain  of  tea,  could  have  cost 

67 


68  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

the  monstrous  sum  which  faced  her  at  the  foot  of 
the  bill.  It  was  true  that  she  had  paid  Mr.  Patrick 
Sweeny  no  actual  cash  for  nearly  three  years;  but 
she  had  brought  him  eggs,  pounds  of  butter,  geese 
in  the  autumn,  chickens  in  the  spring;  she  had 
given  her  eldest  daughter  to  his  service,  and  twice 
he  had  bought  young  heifers  from  her.  She  had 
not  investigated  the  condition  of  her  account,  but 
she  believed  in  a  vague  way  that  things  must  be 
pretty  even  between  her  and  Mr.  Patrick  Sweeny. 
The  sudden  disclosure  of  the  real  condition  of  affairs 
brought  on  the  weakness. 

She  rallied  to  discover  that  she  was  going  to  be 
evicted.  On  the  whole,  she  received  the  news  with 
a  sense  of  relief.  Her  farm  was  a  good  one,  held 
at  a  judicial  rent.  The  tenant's  interest  would  sell 
for  a  respectable  sum.  The  agent's  claim  would  be 
satisfied,  Mr.  Patrick  Sweeny's  bill  settled,  and  she 
would  have  enough  left  to  pay  her  way  to  America. 
There,  no  doubt,  the  girls  would  get  something  to 
do.  Anyway,  she  would  have  a  little  money  in  her 
pocket,  and  "  Sure,  God  is  good." 

In  due  time  notices  appeared  in  the  local  paper 
of  a  sale  by  auction  of  the  tenant's  interest  in 
Gorteen  farm.  There  was  much  talk  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. It  was  reckoned  that  £250  would  not 
be  too  high  a  price  to  pay  for  the  place,  and  that 
maybe  it  would  fetch  £300.  The  land  was  good, 
and  the  rent  was  moderate.  The  manager  of  the 
local  branch  of  the  Dublin  Bank  was  consulted  by 


SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS  69 

more  than  one  ambitious  speculator.  He  was  will- 
ing to  make  advances  to  his  customers  for  the  pur- 
pose of  purchasing  the  farm.  The  tenant's  interest 
in  the  land  was  good  security.  There  was  every 
prospect  of  brisk  bidding  at  the  auction. 

II 

Mr.  Patrick  Sweeny,  Esq.,  J.P.,  Chairman  of 
the  D.C. — it  was  thus  that  he  liked  his  friends  to 
describe  him  on  the  outside  of  the  envelopes — was 
a  great  man  in  the  locality.  A  very  large  number 
of  people  owed  him  money,  and,  therefore,  were 
obliged  to  vote  as  he  wished  them  to  vote  at  elec- 
tions. Therefore,  he  was  Chairman  of  the  District 
Council.  His  son  was  inspector  of  sheep-dipping, 
at  a  salary.  His  son-in-law  was  rate-collector,  with 
a  salary.  He  himself  held  the  Union  contracts  for 
potatoes,  turf,  milk,  flour,  and  meal,  and  sometimes 
acknowledged  that  he  made  a  profit  out  of  them. 
One  of  his  nephews  was  the  dispensary  doctor ;  his 
salary  was  small,  but  he  made  something  out  of  his 
private  practice.  Mr.  Patrick  Sweeny  frequently 
advanced  to  impecunious  farmers  the  amount  neces- 
sary to  pay  the  doctor's  fees.  Another  nephew  was 
Member  of  Parliament  for  the  Southern  Division 
of  the  County ;  he  also  drew  a  salary. 

Once,  a  very  long  time  ago,  it  was  extremely 
profitable  in  Ireland  to  be  connected  with  one  of 
the  great  families.  A  man  prospered  if  he  was 


70  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

second  cousin  to  Lord  Shannon,  or  married  to  a 
distant  relative  of  Mr.  Ponsonby's.  We  live  in  a 
democratic  age,  and  the  old  iniquities  are  swept 
away.  The  bluest  blood  is  no  use  to  a  man  now. 
To  have  an  earl  for  a  relative  is  nothing.  The  thing 
to  be  is  the  son  of  a  provincial  publican,  or,  if 
that  is  impossible,  to  marry  his  daughter  or  his 
niece. 

One  evening,  a  week  before  the  auction  of  the 
Widow  Flanagan's  farm,  Mr.  Patrick  Sweeny  sat 
in  the  room  behind  his  shop.  It  was  not  an  attrac- 
tive room.  The  carpet  bore  evidence  of  Mr. 
Sweeny's  habit  of  spitting.  The  table,  which  looked 
at  a  distance  something  like  mahogany,  had  no  cloth, 
and  was  marked  in  circles  by  the  wet  bottoms  of 
tumblers.  The  wall-paper  hung  down  here  and 
there  in  strips,  and  bulged  elsewhere  in  huge  bub- 
bles on  account  of  the  dampness  of  the  walls.  A 
tarnished  cruet-stand,  a  britannia-metal  teapot,  and 
several  wine  decanters,  with  labels  hung  round 
their  necks,  adorned  the  sideboard. 

It  is  the  function  of  an  upper  class  to  maintain 
a  standard  of  beautiful  living.  Mr.  Sweeny,  a  lead- 
ing member  of  our  new  aristocracy,  did  his  best 
according  to  his  lights.  He  sat  over  his  ledger  with 
his  coat  off,  the  better  to  tackle  the  task  of  adding 
figures  together.  His  grey  shirt-sleeves  were 
exceedingly  dirty.  His  waistcoat,  a  garment  of 
many  stains  and  few  buttons,  lay  open  to  give  free- 
dom to  the  heavings  of  a  huge  paunch.  Four  dif- 


SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS  71 

ferent  smells  surrounded  him.  From  his  clothes 
came  a  heavy  reek  of  artificial  manure.  His  breath 
exhaled  the  fumes  of  whiskey.  His  body  charged 
the  air  with  an  odour  of  stale  sweat.  He  once 
boasted — a  misguided  reformer  had  proposed  the 
erection  of  a  bathroom  in  the  County  Infirmary — 
that  he  had  not  wetted  his  skin  for  seven-and- 
twenty  years.  His  pipe,  which  he  puffed  as  he 
worked,  added  the  fourth  smell.  Even  a  violent 
anti-tobacconist  would  have  been  grateful,  under 
the  circumstances,  to  inhale  the  smoke  of  Mr. 
Sweeney's  pipe. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  a  sluttish  girl 
shambled  into  the  room. 

"  Please  sir,  the  doctor's  within  in  the  shop,  and 
says  you  sent  for  him." 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  guess  the  girl's 
age  by  looking  at  her.  She  had  the  face  of  a  care- 
worn, middle-aged  woman,  and  the  figure  of  an 
undeveloped  child.  Her  cheeks  were  pallid  and 
puffy;  the  rest  of  her  body  was  painfully  thin. 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  watchful  terror  and  dull  cun- 
ning, like  the  terror  and  the  cunning  of  an  animal 
which  has  often  been  hunted  and  expects  in  the  end 
to  be  killed.  She  was  fifteen  years  old.  At  that 
age  girls  ought  to  want  to  sing  and  dance,  to  be  full 
of  joyous  confidence  in  life.  This  girl  shambled, 
cowered,  and  lied.  She  was  Mrs.  Flanagan's  eldest 
daughter,  and  she  was  Mr.  Sweeny's  servant.  She 
had  been  made  over  into  a  worse  than  negro  slav- 


72  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

ery  three  years  before,  on  the  understanding  that 
her  wages  should  go  to  reduce  the  Widow  Flana- 
gan's debt  to  Mr.  Sweeny.  No  actual  cash  changed 
hands.  The  matter  was  one  of  book-keeping.  Mrs. 
Flanagan's  debt  was  not,  apparently,  greatly 
reduced;  but,  perhaps,  Delia  Flanagan's  services 
were  not  worth  much,  and,  anyway,  book-keeping 
is  a  difficult  art — the  most  skillful  men  sometimes 
make  mistakes  in  it. 

"  Please,  sir,"  the  girl  repeated,  "  the  doctor's 
within  in  the  shop,  and  bid  me  tell  you." 

"  Let  him  come  in  here,  then.  And  bring  you 
me  a  quart  of  whiskey  from  the  bar,  and  a  couple 
of  tumblers.  Is  the  pigs  fed?" 

"  I'm  after  feeding  them  this  half-hour." 

"  Well,  get  out  of  this,  and  be  damned ! " 

Dr.  Henaghan  entered  the  room.  He  was  a  young 
man  of  genteel  appearance.  He  wore  a  suit  of  yel- 
low tweed,  yellow  gaiters  strapped  round  his  legs, 
and  yellow  boots.  He  smoked  a  cigarette.  A  thin 
moustache  half  concealed  a  feeble  mouth.  His  pale- 
green  eyes  were  shifty. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Sweeny.  "  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

"  I  hope  there's  nothing  wrong  with  you,"  said 
the  doctor.  "  You  don't  look  very  fit.  You  ought 
to  take  more  exercise.  Would  you  like  me  to  make 
you  up  a  bottle?" 

"  Be  damned !  "  said  Mr.  Sweeny. 

The  girl  tapped  at  the  door  again,  entered,  and 


SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS  73 

deposited  a  tray  on  the  table.  It  held  a  bottle  of 
whiskey,  two  tumblers,  and  a  jug  of  water.  Neither 
of  the  men  spoke  till  she  had  left  the  room,  and  shut 
the  door. 

"  What's  this  I  hear  about  young  Mrs.  Gannon 
dying?"  said  Mr.  Sweeny. 

"  Oh,  she's  dead,  right  enough."  The  doctor 
spoke  airily,  but  he  was  ill  at  ease. 

"  I  hear  them  saying  she  died  because  you  were 
too  drunk  to  attend  her  properly.  What  do  you 
say  to  that  ?  " 

"  I  got  a  red  ticket,  and  I  went  to  the  house.  She 
was  dead  before  I  got  there." 

Mr.  Sweeny  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table 
in  a  way  that  made  the  bottle,  the  glasses,  and  his 
nephew  jump. 

"  Answer  me  straight  now.  Were  you  drunk,  or 
were  you  not?" 

"What  does  it  matter  whether  I  was  drunk  or 
not?  Don't  I  tell  you  the  woman  was  dead  before 
I  got  there?" 

"  Let  me  have  none  of  your  back  talk,  for  I  won't 
take  it  from  you  or  any  man.  I'm  Chairman  of  the 
Council,  and  I'm  bound  to  take  notice  of  the  com- 
plaints that  is  made  against  the  doctors.  I'll  have 
a  Local  Government  Inspector  down.  I'll  have  a 
sworn  inquiry.  I'll — I'll  run  you  out  of  this." 

"  Look  here.  What's  the  good  of  making  a  fuss  ? 
The  woman's  dead,  and  her  baby  along  with  her. 
The  Local  Government  can't  have  a  resurrection, 


74  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

can  it?  I  don't  deny  that  I  had  a  drop  taken,  but 
I  wasn't  drunk.  I  could  have  looked  after  her  all 
right  if  I'd  been  in  time,  but  I  wasn't." 

"And  why  weren't  you?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  how  these  things  go.  I  thought 
there  was  lots  of  time.  I  didn't  want  to  spend  half 
the  night  listening  to  her  groaning." 

"  It's  damned  lucky  for  you  that  you  are  my 
nephew,  let  me  tell  you  that.  If  you  were  any  other 
man,  you'd  go.  Do  you  hear?  You'd  better  be 
mighty  careful." 

"  If  you  like,  I'll  go  to  Father  Tom  to-morrow, 
and  swear  off  the  whiskey." 

"You  might,"  said  Mr.  Sweeny,  -and  you'd  be 
none  the  worse  if  you  did.  But  there's  another 
thing  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about.  Get  the  cork 
out  of  that  bottle,  and  fill  the  glasses.  That's  right. 
Now,  come  over  here  near  me.  I  don't  want  to  be 
talking  loud." 

Dr.  Henaghan  drew  his  chair  up  to  his  uncle's 
elbow,  and  listened  attentively.  Mr.  Sweeny  spoke 
at  some  length  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  When  he  had 
finished,  the  doctor  said: 

"It's  risky!" 

"  It'll  be  a  deal  more  risky  for  you  if  I  bring 
an  Inspector  down  to  inquire  into  Mrs.  Gannon's 
death. 

"  I  don't  see  what  I  get  out  of  the  business.  Why 
don't  you  get  someone  else?" 

"  I  can't  trust  anyone  else.    If  the  thing  got  out 


SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS  75 

on  me,  I  might  never  get  the  farm.  I  can  trust  you 
on  account  of  the  hold  I  have  over  you  with  all  the 
talk  there  is  about  Mrs.  Gannon." 

"  It'll  take  me  three  days  to  go  to  Belfast  and 
back  and  get  the  printing  done.  How  can  I  go  off 
for  three  days?  Somebody  else  will  die  while  I  am 
away,  and  then  there'll  be  more  talk." 

"  Let  them  die.  Amn't  I  the  Chairman,  and  can't 
I  get  you  leave  of  absence  for  a  night  or  two?  I'd 
like  to  see  the  man  that  would  make  talk  about 
dying  when  I  bid  him  keep  his  mouth  shut.  That 
part's  all  right." 

"  Why  can't  I  draw  up  the  notices,  and  get  them 
printed  somewhere  else  besides  Belfast?" 

"  Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool  ?  Or  are  you  a  fool 
yourself?  Any  of  the  printers  about  this  part  of 
the  country  would  talk,  or,  if  they  didn't,  their 
men  would.  Then  the  whole  thing  would  come 
out." 

"  It's  sure  to  come  out  sooner  or  later.  Some- 
body'll  find  out  that  the  League  never  sent  out  the 
notices." 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  does  come  out,  so  long  as  it 
doesn't  come  out  before  the  auction." 

"  There'll  be  the  hell  of  a  row  afterwards ! " 

"  There  will  not.  I'm  the  biggest  subscriber  there 
is  to  the  funds  of  the  League.  They  won't  want 
to  be  making  a  row  about  my  doings.  Besides, 
there's  hardly  a  man  of  them  but  is  in  my  books." 

"  How  am  I  to  post  them  up,  supposing  I  had 


76  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

them?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  round  the  country 
in  the  dead  of  night,  with  a  pot  of  paste  in  one 
hand  and  a  paint  brush  in  the  other?" 

"  If  that's  all  that's  troubling  you,  I'll  send  the 
girl  to  carry  the  paste.    She's  a  half-witted  creature, 
anyway,  and  she'd  be  afraid  to  speak,  let  alone  that 
nobody  would  listen  to  her  if  she  did  itself." 
"  Give  me  a  fiver  for  my  exes,  and  I'll  do  it." 
Mr.  Patrick  Sweeny  extracted  five  greasy  notes 
from  a  leather  pocket-book,  and  handed  them  to 
his  nephew. 

Ill 

Two  days  before  the  auction  of  the  Widow  Flan- 
agan's farm,  the  people  of  the  neighbourhood 
enjoyed  a  sensation.  A  number  of  notices  appeared 
on  the  walls  and  gate-posts.  They  were  very  strik- 
ing notices,  printed  on  bright-green  paper,  which 
emphasised  the  fact  that  they  were  in  the  highest 
degree  patriotic.  They  were  headed  with  these 
words,  which  stood  out  in  large  characters : 

TO  THE  PEOPLE  OF  IRELAND. 

Next,  in  smaller  type,  came  a  paragraph,  begin- 
ning :  "  Whereas  a  heartless  and  abominable  evic- 
tion." Then  came  a  good  deal  of  strong  language, 
what  English  grammarians  call  extension  of  the 
subject,  about  tyrants,  exterminators,  Castle  gov- 


SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS  77 

ernment,  and  other  matters  of  a  similar  kind. 
Monotony  of  appearance  was  avoided  by  another 
bold  headline: 

MEN  OF  CONNAUGHT. 

The  paragraph  below  it  contained  an  appeal  to 
the  patriotic  feelings  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  prov- 
ince, who  were  urged  to  defeat  the  schemes  of  the 
reprobates  named  in  the  first  paragraph.  Then,  in 
type  yet  larger  than  that  of  the  other  headlines, 
came  the  ominous  word : 

TRAITORS. 

It  appeared  from  what  followed  that  anyone  who 
made  a  bid  for  the  Widow  Flanagan's  farm  would 
be  a  traitor  to  the  cause  of  Ireland,  to  the  Catholic 
religion,  the  freedom  of  humanity,  and  several  other 
high  and  holy  things.  Then,  lest  the  mere  imputa- 
tion of  treachery  might  not  prove  a  deterrent  from 
the  practice  of  iniquity,  it  was  plainly  hinted  that 
the  traitor  would  suffer  in  person  and  in  pocket 
from  the  righteous  indignation  of  the  populace. 
The  whole  wound  up  with  a  prayer,  singularly 
appropriate  at  the  bottom  of  such  a  notice,  "  God 
save  Ireland." 

The  notice  produced  a  great  deal  of  excitement, 
and  affected  people  in  a  number  of  different  ways. 
Some  energetic  men  set  to  work  at  once  to  collect 


78  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

a  fund  for  the  benefit  of  the  Widow  Flanagan.  This 
shows  how  excellent  a  thing  patriotism  is.  Until 
the  green  notices  appeared,  no  one  had  thought 
of  doing  anything  for  the  poor  evicted  tenant.  Mr. 
Patrick  Sweeny  headed  the  subscription  list  with 
a  pound.  Others  not  less  energetic  set  to  work  to 
organise  a  public  meeting,  and  telegraphed  to  a 
member  of  Parliament  to  come  and  address  it. 
These  men  were  full  of  joy.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  auctioneer  was  depressed.  He  said  nothing  pub- 
licly, but  he  lamented  to  his  wife  that  he  had  lost 
£10  or  £15.  Nobody,  he  thought,  would  now  bid 
for  the  farm.  It  was  creditable  to  him  that  after 
such  a  blow  he  gave  ten  shillings  to  the  relief  of 
Mrs.  Flanagan.  The  land-agent  read  the  notice, 
and  was  exceedingly  angry.  He  also  understood 
that  no  one  would  bid  for  the  farm.  He  wrote  a 
long  account  of  the  proceedings  to  a  member  of 
Parliament,  not  the  same  member  of  Parliament 
who  was  requested  to  address  the  public  meeting, 
and  a  question  was  asked  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
which  was  reported  in  The  Times  under  the  heading, 
"  Intimidation  in  the  West."  The  bank  manager 
read  the  notice,  and  wrote  to  certain  of  his  custom- 
ers to  say  that  his  directors  declined  to  authorise  the 
advances  which  he  had  previously  promised.  He 
understood  that  the  tenant's  right  in  the  Widow 
Flanagan's  farm  had  ceased  to  be  a  satisfactory 
security.  Mr.  Sweeny  served  out  an  unusual 
quantity  of  drinks  across  his  counter  to  men  who 


SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS  79 

wanted  to  discuss  the  best  way  of  dealing  with 
land  grabbers.  Dr.  Henaghan  was  found  helplessly 
drunk  outside  the  door  of  his  uncle's  house,  and 
was  conducted  home  by  two  policemen. 

There  was  a  large  attendance  at  the  auction  next 
day.  The  people  were  anxious  to  find  out  whether 
anyone  would  dare  to  bid  for  the  farm.  It  was 
suspected  that  a  certain  Scotchman,  one  McNab, 
might  venture  to  defy  the  popular  wrath,  and  argu- 
ment ran  high  about  what  should  be  done  to  him 
afterwards.  McNab  was,  in  fact,  quite  willing  to 
acquire  a  valuable  property  cheap  if  he  could;  but 
he  had  very  little  money  of  his  own,  and  was  one 
of  those  to  whom  the  bank  manager  had  refused 
an  advance.  Still  he  had  hopes.  It  was  a  sheriff's 
sale.  There  would  be  no  reserve  price.  He  gath- 
ered all  the  money  he  could  lay  hands  on,  and  faced 
the  auctioneer  with  a  look  of  grim  determination. 

The  farm  was  put  up,  "  offered  up,"  to  use  the 
phrase  of  the  local  auctioneer.  The  expression  was 
suitable  enough,  for  it  seemed  likely  that  not  only 
the  farm,  but  the  Widow  Flanagan,  would  be  placed 
in  the  position  of  sacrifices,  whole-burnt  offerings 
to  the  unconquerable  love  of  liberty  which  animates 
the  breasts  of  Irishmen. 

"  Twenty  pounds,"  said  McNab,  the  Scotchman. 

The  crowd  hissed,  booed,  and  cursed  with  the 
utmost  heartiness.  Not  a  man  present  but  was 
extremely  angry  at  the  idea  of  McNab  acquiring 
for  twenty  pounds  what  everybody  else  was  afraid 


80  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

to  bid  for.  McNab  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his 
breeches  pockets  and  grinned.  When  the  noise  sub- 
sided the  auctioneer  made  himself  heard: 

"Any  advance  upon  twenty  pounds?  Come, 
gentlemen,  the  farm's  worth  £300  if  it's  worth  a 
penny." 

"  Twenty-five  pounds,"  said  a  voice. 

Sheer  amazement  at  the  audacity  of  this  second 
bidder  held  the  crowd  silent.  That  McNab,  a 
Scotchman,  an  outsider,  a  well-known  contemner 
of  all  the  decencies  of  public  life,  should  make  a 
bid  was  bad  enough.  That  there  should  be  another 
such  reprobate  in  the  neighbourhood  was  beyond 
all  expectation.  A  whisper  passed,  like  a  summer 
breeze,  from  ear  to  ear.  The  name  of  the  new  bid- 
der was  known. 

"  Sweeny  for  ever !  Cheers  for  Sweeny !  "  yelled 
a  voice  in  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  the  voice  of 
the  rate-collector,  Mr.  Sweeny's  son-in-law.  The 
people,  dimly  conscious  that  matters  of  high  poli- 
tics were  in  acting,  cheered  obediently. 

"Thirty  pounds,"  said  McNab. 

"Thirty-five  pounds,"  said  Sweeny. 

Another  burst  of  cheering  followed  the  bid. 
McNab  turned  and  left  the  crowd.  He  had  reached 
the  bottom  of  his  purse.  Mr.  Patrick  Sweeny  was 
duly  declared  the  purchaser  of  the  Widow  Flana- 
gan's farm.  The  crowd,  with  some  curiosity,  waited 
for  an  explanation. 

Mr.    Sweeny,   feeling   that   a    speech   was   due, 


SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS  81 

mounted  the  auctioneer's  chair,  and  delivered 
himself: 

"  Fellow-countrymen !  I  needn't  tell  you,  nor  I 
needn't  tell  any  assembly  of  Irishmen,  that  I'm  no 
land-grabber. 

"  You  are  not,"  shouted  the  rate-collector.  "  We 
know  that." 

"  I've  stood  by  the  Nationalist  cause,"  said  Mr. 
Sweeny,  "  the  cause  of  old  Ireland,  the  land  of 
saints  and  scholars,  since  ever  I  learnt  to  stand 
by  my  mother's  knee.  And  I  mean  to  stand  by  it 
till  every  landlord  and  land-grabber  is  burning  in 
hell,  and  the  people  of  Ireland  is  enjoying  the  place, 
the  just  and  lawful  place,  the  noble  and  exalted 
place  that  our  fathers  occupied  before  us.  Fellow- 
countrymen,  let  us  gaze  on  the  majestic  figure  of 
St.  Patrick,  let  us  do  honour  to  the  name  of  Wolfe 
Tone  and  the  Manchester  Martyrs,  and — and — all 
the  rest  of  the  band  of  patriots;  let  us  cling  to  the 
old  sod.  Esto  perpetua  \  " 

The  crowd  cheered  frenziedly.  None  of  them 
knew  what  esto  perpetua  meant,  nor,  for  that  mat- 
ter, did  Mr.  Sweeny  himself.  But  they  had  heard 
the  words  before,  for  Mr.  Sweeny  always  used  them 
in  his  speeches,  and  they  felt  that  they  must  be 
great  and  good  words;  words  worthy  of  the  loud- 
est cheers. 

"  I  have  bought  this  farm,  but  I  have  bought  it 
to  hold  in  trust  for  the  Irish  people — a  sacred  trust, 
as  dear  to  me  as  my  heart's  blood.  When  the  day 


82  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

of  liberty  dawns,  when  the  wrongs  of  centuries 
shall  at  last  be  drenched  in  gore,  then,  gentlemen, 
then,  on  that  great  and  glorious  day,  I  shall  step 
proudly  forward  and  restore  to  the  people  of  Ire- 
land Mrs.  Flanagan's  farm.  In  the  meanwhile  let 
yous  all  subscribe  liberally  to  the  fund  we're  get- 
ting up  for  the  widow  and  the  orphan,  the  wounded 
soldiers  in  the  war  we're  waging." 

About  ten  o'clock  that  evening,  Dr.  Henaghan, 
hilarious  and  well  satisfied,  was  shown  into  the 
room  behind  Mr.  Sweeny's  shop  by  Delia  Flanagan, 
who  fed  the  pigs. 

"  You  did  middling  well  to-day,"  he  said ;  "  I  say 
you  did  middling  well  to-day,  let  the  other  man  be 
who  he  will." 

"  Hold  your  gab,"  said  Mr.  Sweeny,  "  you're 
drunk  again." 

"  I  am  not  drunk,  nor  near  drunk.  I  came  round 
to  get  a  drink  out  of  you  in  honour  of  the  success 
of  the  stratagem." 

"  Only  for  that  Scotchman,"  growled  Mr.  Sweeny, 
"  I'd  have  got  the  place  for  ten  pound.  But  I'll  be 
even  with  him  yet." 

"  You  will,  begad,  or  with  any  other  man." 

"  And  the  blasted  landlord  gets  every  penny  of 
my  money;  gets  thirty-five  pounds  out  of  me,  all 
on  account  of  that  Scotchman.  And  the  Widow 
Flanagan  owes  me  money  that  I'll  never  see." 

"  There's  the   subscription   they're   getting  up," 


SAINTS  AND  SCHOLARS  83 

said  the  doctor,  "  why  can't  you  take  that  off  of 
her?" 

"  I  can,  of  course,  and  I  will.  But  it  won't  be 
enough,  nor  near  enough." 

"Well,  what's  the  good  of  talking?  Let's  have 
a  drink,  anyway." 

"Delia,"  yelled  Mr.  Sweeny,  "Delia  Flanagan, 
get  a  quart  of  whiskey  from  the  bar,  and  a  couple 
of  tumblers.  Be  quick  about  it  now.  When  your 
old  mother's  washing  the  floors  in  the  workhouse 
you'll  have  to  be  quicker  at  your  work.  I'll  learn 
you  to  listen  to  me  when  I  call." 


V.— FOR  THE  FAMINE  OF  YOUR  HOUSES 

THE  parish  of  Curraghmore,  which  is  situated 
on  the  western  coast,  was  smitten  by  a  famine. 
Therefore,  a  benevolent  Government  decided  to 
send  the  people  some  potatoes.  Early  in  Febru- 
ary, Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  arrived  charged  with  the 
sale,  on  exceptionally  favourable  terms,  of  200  tons 
of  a  new  kind  of  potato  called  the  May  Queen. 

He  settled  himself  as  comfortably  as  possible  in 
the  little  hotel,  and  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  potato- 
laden  steamer.  In  due  time  she  came  into  the  bay 
and  anchored  opposite  Father  Gibbons'  Presbytery, 
about  a  mile  from  the  shore.  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly 
hired  one  of  the  canvas-covered  boats,  locally  known 
as  curraghs,  and  rowed  off  to  the  steamer. 

"  What's  your  plan,"  asked  Captain  MacNab, "  for 
getting  the  potatoes  on  shore?" 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly. 
"  You  are  to  lie  alongside  the  pier." 

"What  pier?" 

"  There's  only  one  pier — the  pier  the  Government 
built  years  ago." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Captain,  looking  slowly  round, 
"where  is  it?" 

Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  pointed  out  the  structure. 
It  was  clearly  visible  in  a  corner  of  the  bay.  So 

84 


FOR  THE  FAMINE  OF  YOUR  HOUSES   85 

were  the  teeth  of  a  long  fringe  of  jagged  rocks 
guarding  the  approach  to  it. 

"  Well,  I'm "  Captain  MacNab  was  a  pious 

man,  and  stopped  himself  in  time. 

Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  was  not  a  marine  engineer 
nor  a  close  observer  of  men  and  manners.  He 
noticed  neither  the  rocks  nor  the  Captain's  half- 
finished  sentence.  The  pier  was  certainly  there — 
grey,  strong,  and  impressive  even  in  the  distance. 
He  saw  no  reason  why  the  steamer  should  not  lie 
alongside  it. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  you  can  come  in  some 
time  to-morrow  ?  " 

Captain  MacNab's  piety  failed  him. 

"  I'll  see  you  damned,  and  your  Government  along 
with  you — and  it's  what  they  deserve  if  they  built 
that  pier — before  I  pile  up  my  ship  on  those  rocks." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  won't  go  along- 
side the  pier?" 

"  You  may  with  safety  take  your  Bible  oath  to  it 
that  it's  exactly  what  I  do  mean,"  said  Captain 
MacNab. 

Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  went  on  shore,  and  spent  the 
evening  writing  an  indignant  account  of  Captain 
MacNab's  behaviour  to  the  authorities  in  Dublin 
Castle.  He  got  by  return  of  post  a  card  which 
informed  him  that  his  letter  was  received,  its  con- 
tents noted,  and  that  a  reply  would  be  forthcoming 
in  due  course.  After  a  week  the  reply  arrived. 
The  authorities  were  unable  to  understand  Captain 


86  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

MacNab's  attitude  and  recommended  that  the  facts 
of  the  case  should  be  presented  to  him  again.  Mr. 
Nicholson-Croly  presented  them.  He,  as  it  were, 
formally  introduced  the  Captain  to  the  pier,  taking 
him  on  shore  for  the  purpose.  He  expatiated  on 
the  beauty  of  its  masonry,  on  the  cost  of  building 
it,  on  the  parental  affection  which  the  Government 
naturally  felt  for  it.  Captain  MacNab's  determina- 
tion remained  unchanged,  though  the  language  in 
which  he  expressed  it  was  modified. 

Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  wrote  a  second  letter  to 
Dublin,  and  received  a  second  post-card  identical 
with  the  first.  This  time  ten  days  elapsed  before 
anyone  found  leisure  to  deal  with  the  matter.  Then, 
lest  further  valuable  time  should  be  wasted,  some 
one  sent  a  telegram : — "  Adopt  other  means  for  land- 
ing potatoes." 

The  only  other  means  that  appeared  to  be  avail- 
able were  the  five  canvas-covered  boats  used  by 
the  natives  for  fishing.  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly,  with 
despair  in  his  heart,  consulted  the  priest. 

"  I  expect  now,"  said  Father  Gibbons,  "  that  if 
the  weather  isn't  too  bad  you  might  get  as  much 
as  ten  stone  into  each  curragh.  If  you  employ  the 
whole  five  of  them,  and  they  make  eight  journeys 
in  the  day — you  will  hardly  get  them  to  do  more 
than  that,  and,  indeed,  Jimmy  Corcoran's  an  old 
man,  and  has  no  one  to  help  him  but  his  gossoon  of 
a  grandson ;  he'll  hardly  go  more  than  four  times. 
Still,  that  same  would  bring  you " 


FOR  THE  FAMINE  OF  YOUR  HOUSES    87 

He  drew  an  envelope  from  his  pocket  and  worked 
the  sum  on  the  back  of  it. 

"  You'd  get  two  and  a  quarter  ton  ashore  in  the 
day,  as  near  as  I  can  make  it  out." 

"  Why,  I'd  be "  said  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly. 

He  in  his  turn  figured  rapidly  with  knitted  brow. 
"  I'd  be  over  two  months  getting  the  whole  cargo 
landed." 

"You  would,"  said  the  priest.  "All  that  and 
more,  for  you  haven't  reckoned  on  Sundays  and 
holydays.  Besides,  the  men  wouldn't  stick  at  the 
work  for  you.  There'd  be  the  spring  fishing  to 
attend  to,  and  the  ploughing.  Indeed,  before  you'd 
finished  there'd  be  the  harvest  to  get  in." 

Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  left  the  priest,  and  went, 
though  not  hopefully,  to  seek  advice  from  the  police 
barrack.  He  learned  there  that  Mr.  Normanstill, 
who  lived  at  Rathmore,  owned  a  tidy  bit  of  a  boat, 
a  boat  that  might  carry  as  much  as  five  tons  of 
potatoes  at  a  time.  It  might  be — the  sergeant 
couldn't  say  for  certain — but  it  might  be  that  she 
could  be  borrowed. 

Mr.  Normanstill  was  the  land  agent,  who  lived 
by  collecting  rent  from  the  inhabitants  of  Curragh- 
more.  He  disliked  Father  Gibbons.  He  very  much 
disliked  the  Government.  He  nourished  a  special 
grudge  against  the  imported  potato  scheme,  because 
he  had  not  been  consulted  about  it.  Also  Mr.  Nor- 
manstill was  a  humourist.  When  Mr.  Nicholson- 
Croly  called  to  treat  for  the  loan  or  hire  of  the  boat, 


88  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

he  insisted  on  regarding  the  visit  as  a  pleasant  social 
function,  and  evaded  all  attempts  to  talk  business. 
Mrs.  Normanstill  poured  out  tea.  She  discussed 
the  scenery,  the  weather,  and  a  new  novel  which 
Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  had  not  read.  When  at  last 
the  unfortunate  young  man  propounded  his  potato 
problem,  his  host  affected  to  regard  it  as  an  excel- 
lent joke,  and  suggested  that  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly 
should  swim  ashore  once  or  twice  every  day  with  a 
May  Queen  potato  in  his  mouth.  Evidently  the 
tidy  bit  of  a  boat  was  not  to  be  borrowed  on  any 
terms. 

Next  day  the  five  curraghs  were  hired,  and  loaded 
with  potatoes  under  a  withering  fire  of  sarcasm 
from  Captain  MacNab,  echoed  by  his  crew,  who 
watched  operations  with  broad  grins.  Father  Gib- 
bons' estimate  of  the  capacity  of  the  curraghs 
proved  too  high.  Barely  two  tons  of  potatoes  were 
landed  before  dark.  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  went  to 
bed  and  slept  uneasily,  haunted  by  a  nightmare  of 
a  whole  life  spent  in  ferrying  potatoes  by  twos  and 
threes  across  an  abnormally  stormy  waste  of  water. 
Three  days  of  immense  toil  resulted  in  the  housing 
of  nearly  six  tons  of  battered  May  Queens  in  a  gal- 
vanised iron  shed  lent  by  Father  Gibbons  for  pur- 
poses of  sorting.  After  that  the  owners  of  the  cur- 
raghs declined  to  put  to  sea  any  more.  Nor  would 
offers  of  increased  payment,  expositions  of  the 
value  of  the  potatoes  to  the  community,  or  threats 


FOR  THE  FAMINE  OF  YOUR  HOUSES    89 

of  Government  vengeance,  somewhat  vaguely 
expressed,  move  them  from  their  decision. 

Mr.  Nicholson-Croly,  doing  the  best  possible 
under  the  circumstances,  prepared  to  sell  his  avail- 
able stock.  He  established  himself  in  the  shed  with 
a  ledger,  a  bottle  of  ink,  some  sacks,  and  a  package 
of  sandwiches.  The  rush  of  buyers  might,  he 
reflected,  prevent  his  getting  away  for  lunch.  No 
one  came  near  him  all  the  morning.  About  half- 
past  twelve  o'clock  a  small  boy  arrived  and  stared 
through  the  open  door.  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly,  who 
was  beginning  to  find  the  hut  draughty,  sent  him 
to  the  hotel  to  fetch  two  rugs.  He  wrapped  his 
legs  up,  ate  his  sandwiches,  lit  a  pipe,  and  waited. 
At  four  o'clock  Father  Gibbons  looked  in  and 
inquired  how  his  sale  was  going  on.  He  expressed 
surprise  at  learning  that  no  single  May  Queen  had 
been  disposed  of. 

"  Maybe  now,"  he  said,  "  the  people  don't  know 
you're  selling  them.  They  very  well  might,  of 
course,  considering  that  the  whole  parish  has  been 
talking  of  nothing  but  the  way  you  got  the  cargo 
landed.  Still  it's  surprising,  sometimes,  the  things 
people  won't  know.  It  would  be  as  well,  perhaps, 
if  I  warned  them  on  Sunday  after  Mass  where  the 
potatoes  are  to  be  had." 

The  next  Sunday  Father  Gibbons  very  kindly 
announced  that  the  potatoes  were  on  sale  in  his 
galvanised  iron  shed,  adding  that  intending  buyers 
should  be  prompt,  because  the  supply  was  limited. 


90  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

On  Monday  no  single  individual  visited  the  shed. 
On  Tuesday  Captain  MacNab  looked  in  to  inquire 
when  the  rest  of  his  cargo  would  be  landed. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  it's  nothing  to  me  when 
you  land  them.  I'd  just  as  soon  spend  the  spring 
here  as  anywhere  else;  but  I'd  be  getting  them 
ashore  if  I  were  you.  I've  a  sort  of  suspicion  that 
some  of  them  are  beginning  to  go  bad." 

Early  in  the  following  week,  Mr.  Normanstill 
drove  up  to  the  shed. 

"  I  looked  in  as  I  passed,"  he  said,  cheerfully, 
"  to  see  if  you  were  worn  out  selling  those  potatoes. 
It  must  be  hard  work.  I  shouldn't  wonder,  now, 
if  you'd  be  the  better  of  a  holiday." 

"  I'm  not  worn  out  with  selling  potatoes,"  said 
Mr.  Nicholson-Croly,  bitterly.  "  I  haven't  sold  a 
single  stone,  and  so  far  as  I  can  see,  I'm  not  likely 
to.  I  can't  understand  it." 

"Do  you  tell  me  that?"  said  "Mr.  Normanstill. 
"  It's  most  extraordinary.  Did  you  ask  Father  Gib- 
bons why  you  couldn't  sell  them?" 

"  He  can't  understand  it  any  more  than  I  can." 

"Oh,  he  can't  understand  it!"  Mr.  Normanstill 
grinned.  "  Do  you  know,  it  occurs  to  me  that 
maybe  the  people  are  holding  off  in  expectation 
of  the  second  cargo." 

"  What  second  cargo  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  ?  Well, 
you  must  be  the  only  man  in  the  whole  country  who 
doesn't.  Why,  man,  the  gentlemen  who  came  down 


FOR  THE  FAMINE  OF  YOUR  HOUSES   91 

to  arrange  about  the  potatoes  said  they  were  going 
to  send  another  two  hundred  tons  for  free  distribu- 
tion among  those  who  hadn't  money  to  buy  any  of 
the  first  lot.  Every  soul  in  the  place  knew  that  six 
weeks  ago,  and  no  man  would  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
buy  to-day  what  he'll  get  for  nothing  to-morrow." 

Captain  MacNab  was  the  next  visitor  to  the  shed. 
He  appeared  to  be  in  a  very  bad  temper. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  unless 
you  take  those  infernal  potatoes  out  of  my  ship  I'll 
dump  the  whole  cargo  of  them  into  the  sea.  They've 
gone  rotten,  sir.  They  stink,  stink  so  that  the  tough- 
est man  on  board  can't  go  below  without  puking. 
I  might  as  well  sleep  in  a  sewer  as  my  cabin. 

Poor  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  succumbed  to  this  last 
blow. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  he  said,  piteously.  "  God  knows 
I  wish  the  potatoes  and  the  Government  and  Father 
Gibbons  and  Mr.  Normanstill  and  the  whole  parish 
were  all  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  together." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Captain,  "  I'll  see  that  the  pota- 
toes get  there  anyhow.  You  can  look  after  the 
drowning  of  the  rest  of  the  party  yourself." 

That  night  Mr.  Nicholson-Croly  was  rowed  on 
board  in  one  of  the  ship's  boats.  Steam  was  got  up 
after  dark,  and  at  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, three  miles  from  the  shore,  one  hundred  and 
ninety-four  tons  of  exceedingly  malodorous  pota- 
toes were  shovelled  into  the  Atlantic.  At  daylight 
the  steamer  was  again  at  her  old  anchorage,  where 


92  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Captain  MacNab  and  his  crew  awaited  the  further 
orders  in  a  comparatively  pure  atmosphere.  A  let- 
ter, marked  "  private  and  urgent,"  ordered  the 
steamer  back  to  her  native  port,  and  directed  Mr. 
Nicholson-Croly  to  impress  upon  the  Captain  and 
crew  the  absolute  necessity  for  silence. 

The  next  two  hundred  tons  of  "  May  Queens  " 
were  sent  to  Curraghmore  by  rail,  and  Mr.  Nichol- 
son-Croly had  the  satisfaction  of  handing  them  over, 
free  of  charge,  to  people  who  grumbled  a  good  deal 
because  they  were  "  a  poor,  soft  kind  of  potato," 
and  certain  to  "  rot  on  us  in  the  ground." 


VI.— FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY. 

IT  must  be  regarded  for  many  reasons  as  unfor- 
tunate that  Mrs.  Crossley,  the  Archdeacon's 
wife,  had  no  children.  The  lot  of  her  husband's 
parishioners  would  have  been  pleasanter,  and  the 
Archdeacon  himself  would  have  been  spared  a  great 
deal  of  anxiety  and  worry  if  there  had  been  eight  or 
ten  young  Crossleys.  The  lady  herself  would  have 
been  much  happier,  because  she  would  have  escaped 
the  heartbreak  of  discovering  the  vanity  of  human 
enthusiasms. 

Mrs.  Crossley  was  vigorous  and  energetic.  No 
one  had  ever  known  her  rest  from  the  effort  to 
accomplish  some  great  work.  Once  she  was  smit- 
ten with  a  wish  to  eliminate  drunkenness  from 
among  the  scourges  which  afflict  humanity.  She 
argued,  most  logically,  that  if  everyone  were  a  total 
abstainer  there  would  be  no  drunkards,  and  having 
reached  this  conclusion,  set  about  persuading  and 
coercing  people  into  signing  pledges.  A  women's 
temperance  guild,  consisting  for  the  most  part  of 
the  wives  and  daughters  of  dissenting  ministers, 
welcomed  an  Archdeacon's  wife  as  a  valuable 
recruit,  and  she  was  promptly  elected  president. 
For  two  years  she  preached  her  crusade  to  rather 
scanty  audiences  in  Methodist  and  Presbyterian 

93 


94  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

chapels,  and  her  husband  was  worried  by  other 
Archdeacons  with  strong  Church  principles  and 
peaceable  wives.  Afterwards  she  took  to  drinking 
a  bottle  of  porter  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and 
looking  after  the  manners,  morals,  and  health  of 
the  curate  and  the  organist.  She  walked  into  their 
lodgings  at  inconvenient  hours  of  the  day  and  night, 
gave  them  excellent  advice  when  they  were  well ; 
entangled  them  both  in  matrimonial  engagements, 
and  doctored  them  when  she  thought  they  looked 
harassed  or  pale.  This  also  was  a  cause  of  con- 
siderable annoyance  to  the  Archdeacon.  The  two 
young  men  wearied  her  at  length  by  their  ingrati- 
tude, and  she  passed  from  them  to  the  production 
of  beautiful  furniture.  There  is  a  kind  of  art  called 
Dutch  Marquetrie  work,  which  consists  of  staining 
squares,  circles,  and  stars  on  white  wood,  and  after- 
wards making  the  whole  surface  sticky  with  a  var- 
nish composed  of  turpentine  and  other  ingredients. 
The  wood  thus  treated  can  afterwards  be  made  into 
small  tables  and  fragile  stools  very  exquisite  to 
look  at.  Mrs.  Crossley  created  large  numbers  of 
these,  and  laid  the  Archdeacon's  books  on  them. 
It  was  after  she  had  exhausted  the  possibilities  of 
artistic  endeavour  that  she  fell  under  the  spell  of 
physical  culture.  She  did  exercises  with  pulleys, 
discarded  garments  she  had  always  been  accustomed 
to,  and  gave  up  her  bottle  of  stout.  She  became 
unpopular  with  the  younger  women  because  she 
inveighed  against  their  favourite  clothes,  and  with 


FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY  95 

men  by  urging  them,  unnecessarily  and  insultingly 
as  they  thought,  to  take  baths.  People  became  shy 
of  calling  at  the  rectory  after  she  insisted  on  teach- 
ing a  bank  clerk  to  breathe,  laying  him  flat  on  his 
back  on  the  drawing-room  floor  for  the  purpose. 
This  misguided  boy  believed  that  he  could  breathe 
well  enough  for  all  practical  purposes  before  the 
lesson. 

Mrs.  Crossley  was  still  a  comparatively  young 
woman  when  she  read  a  book  about  the  way  the 
poor  live  in  York.  She  was  fascinated  by  the  bud- 
gets of  weekly  expenditure,  the  statistics  about  the 
number  of  people  who  slept  in  one  bedroom,  and 
the  dirt  and  disease  consequent  on  insufficient  water 
supply.  She  ransacked  library  catalogues  for  more 
books  of  the  same  kind,  and  for  weeks  feasted  her 
soul  on  detailed  descriptions  of  common  lodging- 
houses,  casual  labour-homes,  and  institutions  called 
"  shelters."  She  acquired  quite  easily  a  taste  for 
sordidness,  and  began  to  yearn  to  extend  her  knowl- 
edge by  experimental  investigation.  She  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  she  was  studying  a  science 
called  sociology,  and  was,  above  all  things,  anxious 
that  her  knowledge  of  it  should  be  fundamental. 
The  word  had  always  been  a  favourite  one  with 
her.  She  had  flung  it  at  the  heads  of  people  who 
would  not  sign  pledges,  and  her  devotion  to  it  was 
responsible  for  the  insult  to  the  bank  clerk.  Com- 
bined with  a  really  splendid  noun  like  sociology  it 
afforded  her  intense  satisfaction.  "  Physical  cul- 


96  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

ture  "  had  been  a  good  phrase  in  its  day,  and  "  artis- 
tic handicraft "  not  without  its  inspiration,  but 
"  fundamental  sociology  "  surpassed  them  both. 

For  a  long  time  she  hesitated  over  the  choice  of 
a  field  for  her  investigations.  She  desired  to  be 
original — to  scan  some  kind  of  life  hitherto  shrouded 
from  public  view.  It  was  also  essential  that  sordid 
details  should  reward  her  pains,  and  that  she  should 
come  face  to  face  with  the  sort  of  things  which  are 
only  hinted  at  in  print.  She  cherished  a  golden 
hope  of  posing  afterwards  as  the  guardian  angel, 
the  Elizabeth  Fry,  of  some  class  of  pariahs. 

It  was  while  walking  home  from  the  harbour  one 
afternoon  in  early  spring  that  the  great  idea  flashed 
upon  her.  It  happened  to  be  the  day  on  which  the 
steamer  sails  from  Ardnamore  to  Glasgow,  and  she 
met  a  crowd  of  rough  country  girls  on  their  way 
to  embark.  She  knew  very  well  what  they  were 
and  where  they  were  going.  They  came  from  the 
poorer  parts  of  the  country,  inland ;  from  among 
the  mountains  and  the  bogs  where  holdings  of  land 
are  small,  and  it  is  impossible  for  a  family  to  get  a 
living.  Therefore,  young  men  and  women,  often 
old  men,  too,  go  off  to  Scotland  and  England,  there 
to  work  in  the  fields  for  six  months  of  the  year,  and 

to  live It  was  at  this  point  that  Mrs.  Crossley 

became  really  interested.  How  did  they  live?  Once 
as  a  girl  she  had  spent  a  week  with  some  friends 
in  a  house  they  had  rented  on  the  western  shores 
of  the  island  of  Bute.  She  remembered  a  Scottish 


FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY  97 

farmer  coming  to  them  one  evening  and  asking  them 
if  they  would  care  to  go  round  to  his  place  and  see 
the  Irish.  She  had  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  the 
scene  which  he  displayed  to  them.  A  large  fire 
burned  in  the  middle  of  his  yard,  and  round  it  were 
clustered  the  savages  from  her  native  land,  cooking 
their  food,  drying  their  clothes,  and  talking  to  each 
other  in  unintelligible  Gaelic.  They  took  no  notice 
of  the  staring  tourist  group,  behaving  with  a  con- 
tempt for  their  curiosity  which  reminded  her  of  the 
nobler  kinds  of  animals  in  zoological  gardens. 

She  looked  at  a  second  group  of  girls  with  more 
interest.  It  occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be 
intensely  exciting  to  discover  how  they  lived  in 
Scotland.  She  recollected  having  heard  that  they 
went  from  one  farm  to  another  in  gangs;  all  slept 
together  in  barns,  and  lived  for  months  with  no 
change  of  clothes  but  what  the  little  bundles  in 
their  hands  contained.  She  saw  in  these  girls  the 
very  field  for  investigation  she  desired.  No  one 
had  ever  before  sounded  the  depths  of  harvesting. 
She  scented  disgusting  details,  half  hoped  for  the 
unspeakable,  and  foresaw  the  blaze  of  triumph  in 
which  she  would  make  her  revelations  to  the  public. 
No  doubt,  later  on,  when  the  conditions  of  their 
servitude  were  ameliorated — Mrs.  Crossley  had 
adopted  the  habit  of  thinking  in  long  words — her 
work  would  be  recognised,  and  all  Connaught 
would  hail  her  as  a  heroine. 


98  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Recollecting  her  great  phrase,  she  determined  to 
be  as  fundamental  as  possible  in  her  study  of  this 
interesting  branch  of  sociology.  She  herself  would 
become,  for  a  week,  or  a  month  if  necessary,  a  har- 
vester. On  her  way  home  she  ordered  a  rough 
tweed  skirt  to  reach  a  little  above  her  ankles;  a 
blue  serge  bodice;  a  shawl  for  her  shoulders,  and 
two  large  red  handkerchiefs — one  to  cover  her  head, 
the  other  to  carry  her  change  of  clothes.  She  also 
bought  two  pairs  of  the  roughest  knitted  stockings, 
thick  boots,  and — this  was,  indeed,  fundamental, — 
an  irreducible  minimum  of  cheap  flannelette  under- 
clothing. This  she  felt  must  be  the  proper  outfit; 
but  to  complete  her  fitness  for  her  task,  she  called 
on  the  woman  who  supplied  her  with  milk,  and 
learnt  from  a  servant  girl  the  Irish  for  "  God  bless 
you." 

One  great  difficulty  presented  itself  as  the  day 
of  the  steamer's  departure  drew  near.  She  feared 
that  if  she  walked  through  the  streets  of  Ardnamore 
in  her  new  custome  a  crowd  would  follow  her,  and 
she  would  be  made  to  appear  ridiculous.  The  Arch- 
deacon might,  of  course,  drive  her  to  the  quay  in 
the  carriage,  and  escort  her,  heavily  cloaked,  on 
board  the  steamer.  But  she  disliked  taking  him  into 
her  confidence.  He  would  be  certain  to  oppose 
her  plan.  Besides,  it  would  be  hardly  fair  to  ask 
his  help.  It  was  one  thing  for  an  Archdeacon  after- 
wards to  bask  in  the  reflected  glory  of  a  wife  who 
had  proved  her  eminence  as  a  fundamental  sociol- 


FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY  99 

ogist — quite  another  thing  for  him  to  lend  the 
countenance  of  gaiters  and  apron  to  a  lady  in  a 
skirt  of  extreme  brevity  and  a  head  handkerchief. 
To  add  to  her  perplexity  the  steamer  sailed  in  the 
glaring  publicity  of  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

The  plan  which  suggested  itself  in  the  end  was 
ingenious.  She  made  up  her  harvesting  clothes  into 
a  brown  paper  parcel,  and  walked  to  the  steamer 
in  her  ordinary  costume,  timing  herself  to  arrive 
two  hours  before  it  sailed.  She  planned  to  change 
her  clothes  in  the  cabin  before  any  of  the  harvest- 
ing girls  arrived.  There  was  only  one  drawback. 
She  would  be  obliged  to  conceal  her  dress  and  hat 
somewhere,  and  might  never  be  able  to  recover 
them.  But,  then,  no  great  work  can  be  accom- 
plished without  some  sacrifice.  On  her  way  down 
she  posted  a  letter  to  the  Archdeacon  explaining 
her  plans  fully.  She  knew  that  it  would  not  be 
delivered  until  she  was  far  out  of  reach  of 
expostulation. 

She  approached  an  officer  who  was  blasphemously 
assisting  in  the  embarkation  of  some  bullocks,  and 
asked  him  for  the  harvesters'  cabin. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  ma'am,  the  company  doesn't 
provide  cabins  for  the  likes  of  them." 

"  But  the  women,  my  good  man.  You  don't  mean 
to  say  that  the  women  spend  the  whole  night  on 
deck?" 

It  appeared,  however,  that  they  did.  Mrs.  Cross- 
ley  was  seriously  embarrassed.  The  prospect  of  a 


100  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

chilly  and  exceedingly  uncomfortable  night  daunted 
her  very  little;  but  the  impossibility  of  changing 
her  clothes  in  public  was  obvious. 

"  Will  you  kindly  direct  me,"  she  said,  "  to  the 
ladies'  cabin?  I  mean  that  reserved  for  first-class 
passengers." 

The  officer,  whose  temper  was  being  tried  by  the 
bullocks,  told  her,  with  unnecessary  emphasis,  that 
the  steamer  did  not  carry  first-class  passengers, 
and  had  no  ladies'  cabin  of  any  sort.  Mrs.  Crossley 
was  a  determined  woman.  She  reflected  that  there 
must  be  some  place  on  the  steamer  sufficiently 
screened  from  public  view  for  her  purpose.  She 
went  in  search  of  it.  Under  the  main  deck,  she  dis- 
covered a  similar  enclosure,  empty,  shut  off  from 
the  after  portion  of  the  ship  by  a  whitewashed 
wooden  partition  about  six  feet  high.  It  seemed, 
if  not  an  ideal  ladies'  dressing-room,  at  least  free 
from  any  observation,  except  that  of  the  neigh- 
bouring cattle.  She  unpacked  her  parcel,  and  laid 
the  garments  ready  at  her  feet.  She  divested  her- 
self of  her  hat  and  jacket.  She  unfastened  her 
blouse.  Then  she  was  startled  by  a  sudden  sound 
of  hoofs  trampling  down  the  narrow  passage  which 
led  to  her  refuge.  She  looked  round.  A  bullock 
came  rushing,  as  it  seemed  furiously,  with  lowered 
head.  For  a  moment  the  creature  hesitated,  not 
unnaturally,  for  he  could  not  have  expected  to  come 
face  to  face  with  a  lady  in  the  act  of  undressing; 
then,  urged  by  the  horns  of  his  fellows  behind,  and 


FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY          101 

the  sound  of  sticks  and  curses  not  far  off,  he  plunged 
forward.  But  Mrs.  Cassidy  had  not  hesitated  at  all. 
Leaving  her  harvesting  outfit,  and  even  her  own 
proper  hat  and  jacket  to  be  trampled  or  horned,  she 
made  a  leap  to  grasp  the  top  of  the  whitewashed 
partition.  Then  her  physical  culture  proved  its 
value.  She  dragged  herself  to  comparative  safety. 
But  the  top  of  a  wooden  partition  is  not  comfort- 
able, nor  was  the  attitude  she  was  forced  to  adopt 
one  in  which  an  archdeacon's  wife  ought  to  be  seen 
even  by  a  bullock.  She  cast  one  regretful  look 
towards  the  clothes,  which  already  were  under  the 
feet  of  the  cattle,  and  dropped  on  the  iron  place 
outside  the  engine-room  door.  Fortunately  the 
engineer  was  engaged  with  an  oil-can  somewhere 
in  the  bowels  of  his  machinery. 

Nothing  at  this  stage  of  her  adventure  prevented 
Mrs.  Crossley's  immediate  return  to  the  rectory, 
except  the  recollection  of  the  letter  she  had  posted 
to  the  Archdeacon.  It  was  written,  she  remem- 
bered, in  very  noble  language.  She  had  expatiated 
upon  lofty  aims;  upon  the  glory  of  the  strenuous 
life ;  upon  the  value  of  fundamental  sociology.  She 
had  not  spared  hints  of  her  contempt  for  the  easy 
and  monotonous  existence  led  by  Church  digni- 
taries. In  the  evening  the  letter  would  be  delivered, 
and  there  was  no  possibility  of  intercepting  it.  No 
self-respecting  woman  could  face  the  situation. 
The  Archdeacon  was  not  a  man  with  a  keen  sense 
of  humour,  but  even  he Mrs.  Crossley  quivered 


102  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

with  shame  and  indignation.  It  would  be  better  to 
perish  as  a  martyr — better  certainly  to  voyage  to 
Glasgow  without  a  hat — than  to  return  to  a  home 
darkened  with  the  shadow  of  an  unquenchable  joke. 

She  did  not  emerge  from  her  hiding-place  until 
the  steamer  started. 

She  found  the  girls  and  men,  for  whose  sake  she 
had  attempted  the  adventure,  assembled  in  the  waist 
of  the  ship.  Under  the  fore-deck  were  piled  pack- 
ing-cases and  great  bales  of  wool.  In  the  shelter 
of  the  after-deck  were  the  bullocks — creatures  for- 
tunate in  having  owners  who  could  sue  the  com- 
pany if  harm  came  of  exposure  during  the  voyage. 
Between  the  wool  and  the  bullocks  on  the  open 
deck  were  the  harvesters.  Some  sat  chatting,  with 
their  backs  against  the  bulwarks.  Another  group 
was  gathered  round  a  foreseeing1  boy  who  had 
brought  a  melodeon,  and  prepared  to  dance.  Others 
had  opened  their  bundles,  and  spread  food  on  the 
deck  in  front  of  them.  It  was  uninviting  enough 
— lumps  of  yellow  cake  made  in  the  cabin  pot-ovens 
from  strong  flour ;  thick  soft  biscuits,  with  currants 
dotted  here  and  there  in  them ;  and  a  few  oranges  ; 
but  the  sight  of  it  reminded  Mrs.  Crossley  that 
she  had  started  before  luncheon,  and  that  the 
steamer  took  twenty  hours  to  reach  Glasgow. 
Apart  from  the  others  stood  two  girls,  who  looked 
wistfully  back  to  the  hills  they  were  leaving,  and 
sang  softly  a  plaintive  song  in  Irish.  Mrs.  Crossley 
felt  that  these  would  be  admirable  subjects  for  her 


FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY          103 

first  experiment  in  fundamental  sociology.  She 
assured  herself  that  she  recollected  her  Irish  phrase, 
and  approached  them : 

"  Gu  manny  dear  hitch,"  she  said,  slowly  and 
distinctly. 

The  girls  stopped  singing  and  stared  at  her.  One 
of  them  had  boisterous  red  hair  and  a  very  freckled 
face.  The  other  looked  anaemic. 

"  Gu  manny  dear  hitch,"  repeated  Mrs.  Crossley, 
still  more  distinctly.  She  addressed  herself  specially 
to  the  anaemic  girl,  for  the  other  looked  very  wild. 

"  She  has  not  the  Beurla — the  English ;  and  I 
myself  have  very  little." 

It  was  the  red-haired  girl  that  answered  her. 

Mrs.  Crossley  realised  that  something  must  have 
gone  wrong  with  her  Irish  pronunciation,  and 
blamed,  quite  unjustly,  the  milk-woman's  servant. 
She  turned,  intending  to  try  one  of  the  other  groups, 
but  the  steamer,  which  had  passed  out  of  the  shelter 
of  Ardnamore  Bay,  pitched  heavily.  She  found 
herself  starting  at  a  rapid  trot  across  the  deck,  and 
then,  with  barely  time  to  turn  around,  trotting  still 
more  rapidly  back  again.  The  red-haired  girl 
started  forward  and  caught  her  just  in  time  to 
prevent  a  headlong  charge  against  the  bulwarks. 

"  It  will  be  better  with  you  sitting  down,"  she 
said. 

Mrs.  Crossley  admitted  that  it  would  be  very 
much  better,  and  allowed  herself  to  be  deposited  on 
the  deck.  The  two  girls  talked  eagerly  together ; 


104  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

but,  except  a  frequent  repetition  of  words  which 
sounded  like  "  van  oozle,"  she  could  catch  nothing 
of  what  they  said.  Very  soon  she  did  not  wish  to 
listen  or  understand.  The  ship  continued  to  pitch, 
and  a  quite  intolerable  nausea  rendered  her  more 
wretched  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  She  gave 
up  the  effort  to  sit  upright,  and  lay  prone  on  the 
deck.  Even  in  this  attitude  it  became  impossible 
to  remain  still.  As  the  steamer  rolled  and  plunged 
she  began  to  roll  helplessly  from  side  to  side.  The 
anaemic  girl  sat  down  on  the  deck  and  took  the  poor 
lady's  head  upon  her  lap.  For  a  long  time  she  lay 
in  a  state  of  comatose  misery,  wakening  at  last  to 
consciousness  of  her  surroundings  with  a  feeling  of 
damp  and  cold.  It  had  begun  to  rain.  The  steamer 
was  pitching  worse  than  ever,  and  salt  spray  joined 
with  the  rain  in  wetting  her.  She  saw  that  a  group 
of  girls  had  gathered  round,  and  stood  swaying 
sickeningly  with  the  motion  of  the  ship.  She  heard 
again  the  constant  repetition  of  the  words  "  van 
oozle."  Then  one  of  the  girls  bent  over  her : 

"  Is  there  cold  on  you,  mistress  ?  " 

There  was,  intense  cold,  but  Mrs.  Crossley  could 
not  say  so  because  of  the  nausea  that  came  on  her 
afresh.  She  did  the  next  best  thing.  She  shivered 
piteously.  Then  she  became  suddenly  aware  that 
the  girl  who  held  her  head  was  also  abominably 
seasick.  There  was  a  convulsion,  during  which  she 
sincerely  hoped  for  a  sudden  death,  and  then  her 
head  bumped  heavily  on  the  deck.  In  a  moment 


FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY         105 

the  red-haired  girl  was  down  beside  her  and  raised 
her  head. 

"  It  will  be  better  to  you  if  you  eat,"  said  one  of 
the  girls,  and  knelt  beside  her.  Mrs.  Crossley 
shuddered  helplessly,  but  could  not  protest.  The 
girl  took  an  orange  from  her  bundle,  bit  a  large 
piece  off  one  side,  and  held  the  remainder  to  Mrs. 
Crossley's  lips.  The  steamer  gave  a  very  violent 
plunge,  and  the  orange  was  jammed  against  her 
mouth,  with  the  weight  of  a  falling  girl  behind  it. 
The  juice  trickled  over  her  chin  and  down  her  neck. 
With  a  convulsive  effort  she  turned  her  head  away. 

"  It  is  cold  that  is  on  the  lady,"  repeated  the  girl 
who  had  made  this  discovery  first.  Several  shawls 
were  stripped  off,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  she  was 
swathed  from  neck  to  foot.  A  faint  sense  of  warmth 
stole  over  her.  It  rained  more  heavily,  and  the 
spray  swept  across  the  deck  in  sheets.  The  red- 
haired  girl  stretched  her  shawl  over  her  own  head 
and  Mrs.  Crossley's,  making  a  kind  of  tent.  She 
stooped  low  and  tucked  the  two  ends  of  it  under 
her.  Then  she  pressed  her  rough  hands  on  Mrs. 
Crossley's  forehead. 

After  this  came  another  period  of  miserable  semi- 
consciousness.  When  she  woke  again  it  was  to  feel 
the  tenting  shawl  suddenly  snatched  away.  The 
red-haired  girl  had  also  succumbed  to  seasickness. 
Mrs.  Crossley  feared  that  her  head  would  be  again 
deposited  on  the  deck.  It  was  pitch-dark,  and  no 
one  would  see  her  or  rescue  her.  She  foresaw  that 


106  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

she  would  roll  across  the  wet  deck,  and  go  on  rolling 
until  some  merciful  blow  put  an  end  to  life  and 
misery.  But  the  red-haired  girl  proved  herself  a 
heroine.  Through  her  worst  spasms  she  clung  to 
the  head,  and  even  at  intervals  during  the  night 
restored  the  tent. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  steamer  entered  the 
comparatively  calm  waters  of  the  Firth  of  Clyde, 
Mrs.  Crossley  began  to  revive  a  little.  The  desire 
to  live  returned  to  her  when  passing  Wemyss  Bay. 
She  disentangled  herself  from  the  enveloping 
shawls,  and  tried  to  stand  on  her  feet.  It  did  not 
surprise  her  to  find  that  she  was  weak  and  shaken. 
Her  protectress  made  her  sit  down  again,  and 
offered  her  a  slice  of  bread  and  an  orange.  Mrs. 
Crossley  ate  the  bread  hungrily ;  but  the  thought  of 
the  orange  was  bitter  to  her,  on  account  of  the 
stickiness  of  her  neck.  She  would  cheerfully  have 
given  a  pound  for  a  cup  of  tea,  but  no  such  thing 
was  available.  However,  the  bread  gave  her  back 
strength  and  sufficient  spirit  to  be  anxious  about  her 
personal  appearance.  Thanks  to  the  shawls  in 
which  she  had  been  wrapped,  her  clothes  had  suf- 
fered nothing  worse  than  a  crumpling;  but  her  hair 
hung  down  about  her  shoulders,  tangled  and  wet, 
and  of  all  the  hairpins  with  which  she  had  started 
only  one  remained.  By  careful  searching,  in  which 
all  the  harvesters,  men  and  women,  took  part,  four 
were  recovered  from  corners  of  the  deck.  The  girls 
subscribed  five  more  from  their  own  heads,  and 


FUNDAMENTAL  SOCIOLOGY         107 

Mrs.  Crossley,  with  the  help  of  a  borrowed  comb, 
regained  a  measure  of  self-respect. 

Curiously  enough,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  the  girls 
all  left  her  when  they  could  be  of  no  further  help. 
They  had  sheltered  her,  nursed  her,  clothed  her, 
even  tried  to  feed  her  in  the  night,  when  she  was 
helpless.  Several  of  them  were  wet  to  the  skin, 
because  they  had  given  her  their  shawls.  Others 
had  parted  with  valuable  hairpins  in  her  hour  of 
need.  But  now,  when,  as  she  conceived,  her  friend- 
ship would  be  an  honour  and  her  conversation  a 
privilege,  they  all  shrank  from  her,  incurably  shy. 
After  passing  Greenock  the  harvesters  gathered  into 
a  group,  and  engaged  in  what  seemed  to  her  an 
animated  debate.  When  it  was  over  an  elderly 
man,  of  patriarchal  and  benevolent  appearance, 
approached  her. 

"  May  I  be  so  bold  as  to  speak  a  word  to  your 
ladyship?  "  he  said. 

Mrs.  Crossley  graciously  signified  her  willingness 
to  listen. 

"  It  isn't  for  the  likes  of  me  to  be  advising  you ; 
but  I'm  an  old  man,  and  I've  seen  a  deal  of  life, 
being  across  in  America  when  I  was  a  boy.  Sure 
it  will  be  better  for  your  ladyship  to  go  back  to 
him." 

Mrs.  Crossley  gazed  at  him  in  amazement. 

"Isn't  it  you  that  is  the  Archdeacon's  lady? 
Many's  the  time  I've  seen  him  in  the  big  town,  when 
I  was  there  for  a  fair  01  such  like.  A  fine  man  he 


108  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

is,  God  bless  him.  Indeed  now,  if  he  does  be  a  bit 
foolish  at  times,  and  a  bad  head  to  you — not  that 
I  ever  heard  that  same  of  him,  but  your  ladyship 
knows  best — isn't  it  what  many  a  woman  has  to 
put  up  with?  and  God  is  good.  Indeed  now  they 
say,  saving  your  ladyship's  presence,  that  many 
a  time  it's  the  woman's  own  fault  when  a  man  takes 
a  drop  too  much ;  and  maybe  now  it  would  only  be 
at  the  Christmas  or  on  a  fair  day.  There's  plenty 
wouldn't  touch  the  drink  at  all  only  for  the  way 
things  is  carried  on  at  home,  not  that  I'd  think  it 
•of  your  ladyship.  But,  faith,  you'd  be  better  going 
back  to  him.  Musha,  God  is  good." 

Mrs.  Crossley  realised  slowly  that  her  fellow- 
passengers  gave  her  credit  for  running  away  from 
the  Archdeacon ;  that  they  supposed  that  the  good 
man  had  taken  to  drink;  that  they  suspected  her 
of  having  driven  him  to  it. 


VII.— MATTY  HYNES'  PIG. 

THE  inhabitants  of  the  Island  of  Inishbee,  which 
lies  off  the  coast  of  Connaught,  objected  to 
paying  the  rate  levied  on  their  lands,  quite  lawfully, 
by  the  county  authorities.  The  sum  was  not  large. 
A  moderately  rich  man  would  have  written  a  cheque 
for  the  whole  of  it  without  hesitation.  It  amounted 
in  all  to  £2  7s.  4d.  There  were  three  families  on 
Inishbee,  and  the  amount  due  by  them  varied  from 
£1  15s.  Id.,  payable  by  Thomas  Geraghty,  to  3s.  2d., 
the  share  of  the  poorest  of  his  two  cousins.  It  was 
not  the  ruinous  amount  of  the  impost  which  led  to 
the  strike  against  payment.  The  Geraghtys  took 
their  stand  on  a  principle,  or  rather  on  two  prin- 
ciples. In  the  first  place,  they  were  free  islanders, 
and  objected  to  paying  anything,  rate,  rent,  or  tax, 
to  anybody.  In  the  second  place,  they  maintained, 
with  great  justice,  that  they  derived  no  benefit 
whatever  from  the  way  in  which  the  county  rates 
were  spent.  Roads  and  bridges  were  repaired  else- 
where. There  were  no  roads  or  bridges  on  their 
island.  Workhouses  were  kept  open  for  the  recep- 
tion of  the  indigent.  No  paupers  went  to  them  from 
Inishbee.  The  salaries  of  dispensary  doctors  were 
paid  that  the  poor  might  be  cured  of  their  diseases. 
None  of  the  Geraghtys  of  Inishbee  were  ever  ill. 

109 


110  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

The  fourteen  young  Geraghtys  who  rejoiced  the 
hearts  of  three  pairs  of  parents  had  all  struggled 
into  the  world  without  medical  assistance.  The 
people  on  the  mainland  might  levy  rates  on  them- 
selves if  they  liked,  and  squander  the  money  on 
useless  luxuries.  The  three  families  on  Inishbee 
got  on  very  well  without  roads,  workhouses,  or 
doctors,  and  saw  no  reason  why  they  should  pay 
for  what  they  neither  had  nor  wanted. 

Matty  Hynes  took  quite  a  different  view  of  the 
matter.  It  was  his  business  to  collect  the  rates.  He 
had,  ultimately,  to  pay  over  the  whole  sum  levied 
into  the  banking  account  of  the  County  Council.  If 
he  failed  to  collect  the  contribution  due  by  any 
particular  householder  he  suffered  the  loss  himself. 
When  the  people  of  Inishbee  refused  to  pay,  Matty 
Hynes  was  £2  7s.  4d.  poorer  than  he  ought  to  have 
been.  He  disliked  losing  the  money.  He  disliked 
still  more  the  feeling  that  the  three  families  of 
Geraghtys  were  robbing  him.  He,  too,  waiving  the 
consideration  of  the  smallness  of  the  sum  in  dispute, 
took  his  stand  on  principle.  The  money  was  due, 
and  what  is  due  must,  if  society  is  to  survive,  be 
paid.  He  put  this  view  of  the  matter  before  the 
Geraghtys,  but  they  were  not  affected  by  it.  Their 
position  remained  unchanged. 

The  law  provides  the  rate-collector  with  a  weapon 
against  defaulters.  It  allows  him  to  seize  their  prop- 
erty and  sell  it  by  public  auction,  satisfying  his 
claim  out  of  the  proceeds  of  the  sale.  The  Geraghtys 


MATTY  HYNES'  PIG  111 

owned  property.  They  had  on  their  island  four 
bullocks,  a  cow,  two  sows,  and  seven  small  pigs. 
Matty  Hynes,  driven  at  last  to  extremities,  resolved 
to  seize  some  or  all  of  these  animals.  He  knew  that 
the  Geraghtys  would  offer  all  the  resistance  in  their 
power,  so  he  called  on  the  police  officer  of  the  local- 
ity and  demanded  his  assistance. 

Mr.  Benson,  the  District  Inspector  of  Police,  was 
a  young  man  with  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman,  and 
a  natural  dislike  for  tax-collectors.  He  was  a 
sportsman,  and  rather  admired  the  stand  made  by 
the  Geraghtys.  But  he  was  also  an  officer,  pledged 
to  the  maintenance  of  law  and  order.  He  felt  him- 
self forced  to  accede  to  the  request  made  by  Matty 
Hynes. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  with  a  note  of  sarcasm  in 
his  voice,  "  that  four  constables  and  the  sergeant 
will  be  enough  to  overawe  the  Geraghtys  ?  " 

"  They  will,  surely,"  said  Matty  Hynes,  adding 
as  an  after-thought,  "  if  so  be  we  had  them  there." 

Mr.  Benson  was  new  to  the  west  of  Ireland. 
There  seemed  to  him  no  reason  why  the  men  should 
not  be  taken  to  Inishbee  in  a  boat.  The  island  was 
only  two  miles  distant  from  the  mainland.  He 
said  as  much  to  Matty  Hynes. 

"  You  might  take  them  in  a  boat,"  said  Matty, 
"  if  so  be  you  had  the  boat." 

There  were  five  boats  in  the  little  harbour  at 
Ballymore ;  stout  fishing-boats,  each  of  them  able  to 
carry  four  constables,  a  sergeant,  Mr.  Benson, 


112  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Matty  Hynes,  and  a  couple  of  bailiffs.  They 
belonged  to  men  who  were  continually  grumbling 
about  the  difficulty  of  earning  money.  It  seemed 
obvious  to  Mr.  Benson  that  any  one  of  them  would 
be  glad  to  hire  his  boat  for  a  reasonable  sum.  Matty 
Hynes  was  an  older  man  than  Mr.  Benson,  and  had 
spent  his  whole  life  in  Connaught.  He  was  not  sure 
that  any  boat  would  be  available. 

Mr.  Benson,  prompt  in  action  as  befits  a  man  in 
his  profession,  walked  down  to  the  harbour.  He 
found  the  whole  five  boats-owners  leaning  over  a 
wall.  They  were  studying  the  sky  with  a  view  to 
being  able  to  foretell  the  weather.  They  were  also 
smoking  pipes.  Mr.  Benson  greeted  them  cheerily. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  "  will  any  of  you  hire  me  a  boat 
for  a  day  ?  " 

There  was  a  stir  of  surprise  and  pleasurable 
anticipation  among  the  men.  The  hiring  of  a  boat 
is  a  very  rare  thing  in  Ballymore. 

"  If  it's  for  the  coal-fish  that  your  honour's  going 
out,"  said  Peter  Reilly,  the  oldest  of  the  fishermen, 
"  the  tide  will  be  right  tomorrow  afternoon." 

"  I've  no  time  for  fishing,"  said  Mr.  Benson.  "  I 
want  to  go  to  Inishbee." 

"  You  might  do  that,"  said  Peter  Reilly,  "  if  you 
had  the  wind.  But  there's  no  wind.  You'd  need 
four  men  to  row  that  length." 

"  I'll  have  the  police,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

The  fishermen  looked  at  one  another  doubtfully. 


MATTY  HYNES'  PIG  113 

No  man  in  Ireland  cares  to  be  mixed  up  with  the 
police  if  he  can  help  it. 

"Is  it  a  still  you're  after?"  said  Peter  Reilly. 
"  For  if  it  is " 

Everybody  sympathizes  with  the  illicit  distiller. 
The  trade  is  highly  beneficial  to  a  public  which 
appreciates  cheap  spirits.  Mr.  Benson  had  knowl- 
edge enough  of  the  minds  of  the  people  to  protest 
at  once  that  he  had  no  intention  of  seizing  a  still. 
Peter  Reilly  looked  round  his  friends  with  a  slow, 
searching  gaze.  His  eyes  left  them  and  rested  on 
Mr.  Benson.  Then,  passing  Mr.  Benson,  they  sur- 
veyed the  road  which  led  to  the  harbour.  Matty 
Hynes  stood  about  fifty  yards  up  the  road,  watching 
for  Benson.  Peter  Reilly  saw  him  and  understood 
at  once  what  the  boat  was  wanted  for. 

"  If  it's  to  seize  the  Geraghtys'  beasts,"  he  said, 
"  that  you're  wanting  to  go  to  Inishbee,  you'll  get 
no  boat." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"  Because  they'd  have  it  smashed  to  bits  on  you 
with  the  stones  they'd  be  pelting  into  her.  Believe 
you  me,  your  honour,  them  Geraghtys  in  Inishbee 
is  terrible  wild.  Thomas  is  the  worst  of  them.  He'd 
think  very  little  of  knocking  a  hole  the  size  of  your 
head  in  a  boat  if  he  had  it  in  his  mind  that  she  was 
after  him  to  be  doing  harm.  It'll  be  better  for  you 
to  leave  them  fellows  alone.  What's  the  loss  of  the 
money  to  Matty  Hynes?  He  can  afford  it.  We'd 
be  willing  to  oblige  your  honour  in  the  matter  of  a 


114  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

day's  fishing  or  the  like,  but  as  for  giving  out  a  boat 
to  Matty  Hynes,  and  getting  her  hammered  into  bits 
by  them  playboys  beyond  in  Inishbee,  it's  what 
we  wouldn't  do." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  assent  from  the  other 
fishermen.  Peter  Reilly  had  given  expression  to 
their  feelings.  Mr.  Benson  left  the  quay  and  walked 
up  toward  the  town.  On  the  way  he  met  Matty 
Hynes. 

"  Did  you  get  the  boat?  "  said  Matty. 

"  I  did  not." 

"  I  was  thinking  you  wouldn't.  They're  a  poor- 
spirited  lot,  them  fellows  that  owns  the  boats." 

"  I  wish  you  and  your  rate  were  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea  together,"  said  Mr.  Benson.  "  What  do  you 
want  to  make  all  this  fuss  for  over  a  matter  of  a 
couple  of  pounds?  " 

"  It's  yourself  that'll  have  to  help  me  to  get  it," 
said  Matty,  "  whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"  Without  we  was  to  swim,"  said  Matty,  medita- 
tively, "  I  know  of  no  way  we'll  get  the  police  and 
the  bailiffs  out  to  Inishbee  except  the  one.  We'd 
be  hard  set  to  swim  there,"  he  added,  "  seeing  it's  a 
good  two  miles.  And  when  it  came  to  swimming 
back  with  maybe  a  couple  of  bullocks  along  with 
us " 

"  Talk  sense,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "and  tell  me  what 
you  want  me  to  do  now." 


MATTY  HYNES'  PIG  115 

"  I  don't  see  what  there  is  to  do,"  said  Matty, 
"  barring  a  gunboat." 

Mr.  Benson  started,  and  meditated  a  flat  rejection 
of  a  proposal  hardly  less  absurd  to  his  mind  than 
the  idea  of  swimming.  Then  he  recollected  that  on 
other  occasions,  in  other  places  along  the  western 
Irish  coast,  the  ships  of  his  Majesty's  navy  had  been 
employed  on  similar  errands.  He  went  home  and 
wrote  a  letter  to  his  superior  officer.  That  gentle- 
man, in  turn,  wrote  to  some  one  else.  Many  letters 
passed  between  the  police  authorities  in  Dublin 
Castle,  the  Local  Government  Board,  the  Chief 
Secretary  for  Ireland,  and  the  Admiralty.  The 
whole  correspondence,  when  collected,  filed,  and 
submitted  to  the  Lord-Lieutenant,  made  an  impos- 
ing bundle  of  foolscap. 

Three  weeks  later  H.M.  gunboat  Curlew  steamed 
out  of  Queenstown  Harbor.  Lieutenant  Eckersley, 
who  commander  her,  was  in  a  very  bad  temper. 
He  did  not  want  to  voyage  round  the  coasts  of 
Kerry  and  battle  his  way  northward  through  the 
Atlantic.  He  wanted  to  stay  in  Queenstown  and 
take  part  in  a  lawn-tennis  tournament  which  he  had 
helped  to  organise.  He  disliked  the  prospect  of 
feeling  his  way  to  an  unknown  anchorage  off  the 
town  of  Ballymore.  The  Connaught  coast  has  a 
bad  reputation  among  sailors.  There  are  hidden 
rocks  in  unexpected  places,  tides  which  sweep 
violently  along,  and  an  almost  total  absence  of 
buoys,  lights  and  other  aids  to  navigation.  The 


116  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

crew  of  the  Curlew  shared  their  commander's  irri- 
tation. Every  man  of  them  had  his  own  ties  in 
Queenstown.  There  were  agreeable  young  women 
there.  It  seemed  unlikely  that  there  would  be  any 
young  women  in  Ballymore.  If  they  had  known 
the  name  of  Matty  Hynes  these  men  would  have 
cursed  him.  They  had  never  heard  of  him,  and  so 
they  cursed  Mr.  Benson,  who  was  not  really  to 
blame.  Curiously  enough,  neither  they  nor  Lieuten- 
ant Eckersley  cursed  the  people  of  Inishbee.  It  was 
felt  in  the  gunboat  that  these  unhappy  islanders 
were  the  victims  of  official  fussiness.  So  were  the 
sailors.  Their  common  sufferings  created  a  bond  of 
sympathy  between  them. 

At  about  seven  o'clock  on  a  very  fine  evening  the 
Curlew  cast  anchor  outside  Ballymore  Harbour. 
Inishbee  lay  to  the  west,  a  low,  black  patch  against 
the  setting  sun.  Lieutenant  Eckersley  surveyed  it 
through  his  glasses  and  sighed.  Then  he  turned 
and  surveyed  the  town.  It  looked  exceedingly 
uninteresting.  He  sighed  again.  A  fishing-boat 
stole  out  of  the  harbour,  her  brown  sail  boomed  out 
to  catch  the  easterly  breeze.  She  was  followed  by 
another  and  then  another.  All  five  fishing-boats  left 
the  harbour.  This  was  a  very  unusual  thing;  for 
the  Ballymore  fishermen  seldom  fish,  except  in  the 
early  spring  when  the  mackerel  visit  the  coast. 
Lieutenant  Eckersley  knew  enough  of  the  ways  of 
Connaught  fishermen  to  feel  surprised  at  the 
appearance  of  the  fleet.  He  remarked  on  it  an  hour 


MATTY  HYNES'  PIG  117 

later  when  he  visited  Mr.  Benson.  Then  he  got  to 
business. 

"  What  time  do  you  and  your  party  intend  to 
start  tomorrow  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  earlier  the  better,"  said  Mr.  Benson.  "  All 
I  want  is  to  get  the  job  over," 

"Eight  o'clock?" 

"  Very  well.  I'll  have  my  men  at  the  quay  at 
eight." 

"  You  quite  understand,  of  course,"  said  Lieuten- 
ant Eckersley,  "  that  I  and  my  men  take  no  part  in 
the  proceedings.  We're  simply  there  as  spectators." 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "  I 
and  my  men  don't  either.  We  look  on,  unless  we're 
obliged  to  afford  protection  to  the  rate-collector  and 
the  bailiffs." 

"  Oh,"  said  Lieutenant  Eckersley,  "  I  thought  you 
police " 

"  You  were  wrong  then,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 

He  felt  strongly  on  the  subject  of  the  dignity  of 
the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary,  and  was  inclined  to 
resent  the  tone  taken  by  the  naval  officer.  Lieuten- 
ant Eckersley  said  no  more  at  the  time ;  but  later  in 
the  evening,  speaking  to  one  of  his  subordinates,  he 
referred  to  Mr.  Benson  and  his  men  as  "  beastly 
bobbies."  So  it  happened  that  the  party  which  met 
next  morning  on  the  deck  of  the  Curlew  was  not  a 
comfortably  assorted  one.  Lieutenant  Eckersley 
and  his  officers  held  aloof  from  Mr.  Benson.  The 
sailors  showed  by  their  manner  that  they  regarded 


118  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

the  police  as  their  inferiors.  The  police  stood  as 
far  as  possible  apart  from  Matty  Hynes,  who  wore 
no  uniform  of  any  kind.  Matty  Hynes,  on  his  part, 
asserted  his  dignity  by  refusing  to  speak  to  the  two 
bailiffs  whom  he  had  brought  with  him. 

Inishbee,  when  the  gunboat  reached  it,  presented 
a  curiously. deserted  appearance.  There  was  not  a 
man,  woman,  or  child  to  be  seen.  No  smoke  issued 
from  the  chimneys  of  the  three  cottages.  Neither 
the  cow  nor  a  single  one  of  the  four  bullocks  was 
visible  in  the  fields.  Lieutenant  Eckersley  was  so 
far  moved  by  the  unusual  appearance  of  desolation 
that  he  crossed  the  deck  and  spoke  to  Mr.  Benson. 

"Do  you  want  to  land?"  he  asked.  "There 
doesn't  appear  to  be  man  or  beast  on  the  island." 

Mr.  Benson  told  the  sergeant  to  summon  Matty 
Hynes.  Matty,  putting  his  pipe  in  his  pocket,  joined 
the  two  officers. 

"Do  you  want  to  land?"  asked  Mr.  Benson. 
"  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  for  you  to 
seize." 

"  Unless  you  propose  to  carry  off  the  island 
itself,"  said  Lieutenant  Eckersley. 

"  They  have  them  hid  on  me,"  said  Matty  Hynes. 
"  Hell  to  their  souls !  but  they  have  them  hid  in 
some  hole  or  other.  I'll  land,  of  course.  Them 
Geraghtys  is  beyond  anything  for  their  tricks. 
They'd  steal  the  coat  off  your  back  and  you  looking 
at  them." 

Lieutenant   Eckersley   gave   an   order,   and   two 


MATTY  HYNES'  PIG  119 

boats  were  lowered.  He  himself,  moved  by  curios- 
ity, went  in  one  of  them,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Benson  and  three  of  the  police.  The  other  two 
police,  Matty  Hynes,  and  the  bailiffs,  were  landed 
by  the  second  boat. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "  off  with  you,  Matty, 
and  find  your  cattle." 

"  I'll  not  go  a  step,"  said  Matty  Hynes,  "  without 
you  and  the  police  along  with  me.  I'd  be  in  dread 
of  them  Geraghtys.  They  might  be  waiting  some- 
where unknown  to  me  with  sticks  and  stones  and 
all  sorts  ready  in  their  hands,  or  maybe  worse.  My 
life  wouldn't  be  safe  among  them." 

"  I  think  I'll  come  too,"  said  Lieutenant  Eckers- 
ley,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

The  possibility  of  a  skirmish  between  the  police 
and  a  force  of  ambushed  Geraghtys  excited  him. 
The  party  proceeded  cautiously  toward  the  nearest 
cottage.  Three  of  the  police  marched  in  front  with 
their  carbines  in  their  hands.  Matty  Hynes  and  the 
bailiffs  followed  them.  Then  came  Mr.  Benson  and 
the  remaining  police.  Lieutenant  Eckersley,  with 
his  cigarette,  followed  about  five  yards  behind.  The 
house  was  empty.  So  was  the  pigsty  which  stood 
beside  it.  Matty  Hynes  and  the  bailiffs  examined 
the  whole  premises  carefully. 

"  They'll  be  waiting  for  me  beyond,"  he  said, 
"  wherever  it  is  they  have  the  beasts  hid,  and  I'll 
trouble  you,  Mr.  Benson,  to  see  that  no  harm  comes 
to  me  and  the  bailiffs.  They're  murdering  villains, 


120  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

them  Geraghtys.  I  wouldn't  trust  them  not  to  have 
some  kind  of  a  trap  laid  for  us." 

The  little  army  proceeded  in  the  same  order  to  the 
second  house.  Here  the  search  was  more  success- 
ful. Matty  Hynes  came  upon  a  small  pig  which  was 
rooting  cheerfully  in  the  manure  heap  before  the 
door. 

"  You  may  seize  that  fellow,  anyway,"  said  Matty. 
"  We'll  get  the  rest  of  the  beasts  further  on." 

One  of  the  bailiffs  made  a  grab  at  the  pig  and 
missed  it.  It  was  a  small  and  active  pig.  It  ran 
to  the  far  end  of  the  manure  heap  and  then  stopped 
and  looked  at  the  bailiff. 

"  Catch  it,  can't  you  ?  "  said  Matty  Hynes. 

Both  the  bailiffs  tried,  but  the  pig  escaped  again. 
It  was  accustomed  to  being  chased  by  the  Geraghty 
children,  and  thoroughly  understood  the  game.  It 
grunted  with  delight  as  it  eluded  the  bailiffs.  Mr. 
Benson,  Lieutenant  Eckersley,  and  the  police 
grinned. 

"  You  may  leave  him  alone,"  said  Matty  Hynes. 
"  I  wouldn't  be  bothered  taking  the  like  of  him.  I'll 
go  on  till  I  find  where  they  have  the  cattle  hid." 

The  third  and  largest  house  was  Thomas  Ger- 
aghty's.  A  voice  issued  from  the  door  as  the  party 
approached  it. 

"  Mind  yourselves  now,"  said  Matty  Hynes. 
"  They'll  be  out  for  blood  this  day." 

The  police  grasped  their  carbines.  Mr.  Benson 
straightened  himself.  Lieutenant  Eckersley  lit  a 


MATTY  HYNES'  PIG  121 

fresh  cigarette.  Matty  Hynes  approached  the  door 
cautiously.  A  long  speech  uttered  in  a  shrill, 
quavering  shriek  greeted  him. 

"What's  that?"  said  Lieutenant  Eckersley.  "It 
sounds  to  me  like  a  woman's  voice." 

"  She's  talking  Irish,"  said  Mr.  Benson.  "  What's 
she  saying,  Matty?" 

"  So  far  as  she's  got  up  to  now,"  said  Matty, 

"  she's  done  nothing  but  curse,  but  I'm  just  after 
asking  her  where  they  have  the  cattle  hid." 

"  Who  is  she?  "  said  Mr.  Benson. 

"  She's  Thomas  Geraghty's  mother,"  said  Matty, 
"  that's  been  bedridden  these  ten  years,  and  hasn't 
the  right  use  of  her  legs." 

She  had,  apparently,  the  full  use  of  her  tongue. 
Lieutenant  Eckersley,  who  was  standing  near  the 
door,  ventured  the  opinion  that  she  was  still  cursing. 

"  She  is  not,"  said  Matty,  "  but  she's  telling  me 
that  every  beast  on  the  island  was  took  ashore  last 
night  and  left  in  Peter  Reilly's  field,  the  way  I 
wouldn't  be  able  to  get  at  them." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "  if 
she  was  telling  you  the  truth." 

"  Ask  her,"  said  Lieutenant  Eckersley,  "  if  it  was 
the  fishing-boats  from  Ballymore  that  landed  the 
cattle  for  them  last  night." 

"  If  it  was,"  said  Matty  Hynes,  "  she'd  have  more 
sense  than  to  tell  me." 

"  In  any  case,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  "  we  may  as  well 
be  going  home." 


122  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  I'll  take  the  young  pig  that's  beyond  with  me, 
anyway,"  said  Matty  Hynes. 

The  pig,  trusting  apparently  to  his  powers  of 
escape,  had  scorned  to  conceal  himself.  He  was 
still  rooting  in  the  manure  heap  when  the  party 
returned  to  his  home.  This  time  Matty  Hynes 
made  careful  plans  for  his  capture.  He  and  the  two 
bailiffs  approached  the  manure  heap  from  three 
different  directions  and  closed  in  slowly  on  their 
prey.  The  pig,  with  contempt  in  his  eye,  waited 
until  they  were  quite  near  him,  and  then  bolted 
unexpectedly  past  Matty  Hynes.  He  had,  the  night 
before,  successfully  evaded  capture  when  chased  by 
all  the  fishermen  from  Ballymure,  the  three  Ger- 
aghtys,  and  the  fourteen  children.  He  felt  perfectly 
confident  of  being  able  to  escape  from  Matty  Hynes 
and  the  two  bailiffs.  But  Matty  was  a  crafty  and 
determined  man.  Perhaps,  also,  the  pig  was  over- 
confident. After  a  chase  which  lasted  half  an  hour, 
he  was  hemmed  into  a  corner  between  his  sty  and 
the  wall  of  the  house.  There  seemed  no  way  of 
escape.  Every  rush  for  freedom  ended  in  failure, 
and  the  rushes  got  shorter  each  time,  as  the  bailiffs 
and  Matty  closed  in.  Lieutenant  Eckersley,  greatly 
excited,  followed  Matty  closely,  and  peered  over 
his  shoulder  to  see  the  end.  Matty  stooped  and 
grasped  the  pig  round  the  neck.  Then  an  unex- 
pected thing  happened.  The  pig  made  a  furious 
rush  between  Matty's  legs.  He  clung  to  its  neck, 
he  tottered  backward,  tripped  over  Lieutenant 


MATTY  HYNES'  PIG  123 

Eckersley,  and  fell,  still  clinging  tightly  to  the  pig. 
Lieutenant  Eckersley  also  fell. 

The  double  accident  happened  in  a  particularly 
dirty  corner  of  the  yard  in  front  of  the  cottage. 
When  Lieutenant  Eckersley  got  up  his  beautiful 
uniform  was  covered  with  mud  from  the  collar  of 
his  coat  to  the  bottom  of  his  trousers.  He  swore. 
Mr.  Benson  grinned  feebly.  He  did  not  want  to 
grin,  but  he  did.  The  police  sergeant  giggled  and 
then  choked.  The  other  members  of  the  force  also 
giggled.  Lieutenant  Eckersley  swore  again.  Matty 
Hynes,  on  the  other  hand,  got  up  in  a  very  good 
temper.  He  was  not  wearing  a  beautiful  uniform, 
and  he  had  the  pig  safe.  The  police  sergeant, 
repenting  of  his  giggle,  pulled  a  handful  of  straw 
out  of  the  thatch  of  the  cottage,  and  set  to  work  to 
wipe  the  mud  off  Lieutenant  Eckersley. 

"  I'm  ready  to  go  home  now,  any  time,"  said 
Matty  Hynes,  hugging  the  pig.  "  If  I  can't  get  a 
decent  price  for  him  I'll  buy  him  in  myself  and  keep 
him  till  he's  fat." 

"  If  you  think,"  said  Lieutenant  Eckersley,  "  that 
I'm  going  to  turn  the  Curlew  into  a  cattle  boat  to 
carry  your  filthy  pigs,  you're  making  a  big  mistake." 

"  It's  joking  you  are,"  said  Matty  Hynes. 

"  I'll  soon  show  you  whether  I'm  joking.  You 
can  either  leave  that  pig  behind  you,  or  stay  with 
him  yourself,  for  you'll  not  bring  him  on  board  my 
boat." 

Matty  Hynes  looked  helplessly  at  Mr.  Benson. 


124  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  I'm  here,"  said  Lieutenant  Eckersley,  "  to  bring 
you  and  your  bailiffs  to  this  island,  and  then  fetch 
you  home  again.  There  isn't  a  word  in  my  orders 
about  carrying  pigs.  It's  against  all  the  regulations, 
and  I  won't  do  it." 

"  He  has  you  there,  Matty,"  said  Mr.  Benson. 
"  You  may  just  as  well  drop  that  pig." 

On  the  way  home  Lieutenant  Eckersley,  having 
changed  his  uniform  and  regained  his  self-respect, 
asked  a  question  of  Mr.  Benson. 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  he  said,  "  how 
much  money  the  people  of  that  island  actually  owe? 
It  can't  be  much,  to  judge  by  the  look  of  the  place." 

"  Two  pounds,  seven  shillings  and  fourpence," 
said  Mr.  Benson. 

"What?" 

"Two  pounds,  seven  shillings  and  fourpence," 
said  Mr.  Benson,  slowly  and  distinctly. 

"  Well,  I'm  hanged !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me ? 

I've  steamed  all  the  way  from  Queenstown — the 
coal  alone — your  five  men — you — me — one  of  his 
Majesty's  ships — and " 

"And  the  price  of  a  new  uniform  for  you,"  said 
Mr.  Benson. 

"  All  for  the  sake  of  two  pounds,  seven  shillings 
and  fourpence." 

"  And  in  the  end  we  didn't  get  it,"  said  Mr.  Ben- 
son, "  though  we'd  have  cleared  half  the  money, 
anyhow,  if  you  would  have  let  Matty  Hynes  bring 
the  pig  he  caught.  It  wouldn't  have  done  you  any 


MATTY  HYNES'  PIG  125 

harm.  He'd  have  nursed  it  in  his  arms  the  whole 
way  like  a  baby." 

"  Two  pounds,  seven  shillings  and  fourpence ! " 
said  Lieutenant  Eckersley. 

Mr.  Benson  saw  his  opportunity  for  taking 
revenge  for  the  snubs  he  had  suffered  in  the 
morning. 

"  Of  course  you  naval  men  are  bound  to  keep  up 
your  dignity,"  he  said.  "  But  even  if  the  pig  had 
been  let  run  loose  about  your  cabin  he  wouldn't 
have  made  more  of  a  mess  of  that  uniform  of  yours. 
I  almost  fancy  I  can  smell  it  from  here." 

But  Lieutenant  Eckersley  had  no  spirit  left  for 
self-assertion. 

"  Two  pounds,  seven  shillings  and  fourpence," 
he  murmured.  "  Good  Lord  1 " 


VIIL— BED  CLOTHES 

EGERTON  walked  into  my  private  room  on  Sat- 
urday morning  and  flung  a  bundle  of  MS.  on 
my  table. 

"Read  that,"  he  said. 

I  was  irritated.  Egerton  is  my  junior  partner — 
between  us  we  constitute  the  publishing  firm  of 
Burdett  Egerton — but  I  object  to  his  breaking  in  on 
me  when  I  am  busy. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"  It's  a  story,"  he  said ;  "  a  story  which  has  been 
submitted  to  me  for  the  magazine." 

The  Tower  Magazine  is  one  of  our  ventures,  and 
it  is  understood  between  us  that  Egerton  is  respon- 
sible for  it.  I  resented  his  trying  to  make  me  do  his 
work. 

"Who's  it  by?"  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  It's  sent  to  me  without  name 
or  address  attached  to  it." 

"  Then  for  goodness'  sake  put  it  in  the  waste- 
paper  basket  and  don't  bother  me." 

"  It's  good,"  said  Egerton.  "It's  so  good  that— 

"  Then  publish  it ;  but  for  heaven's  sake  let  me 
alone.  I'm  going  down  to  the  country  for  the  week- 
end, and  if  I'm  to  catch  my  train  I  must 

"Very  well  then,  I'll  publish  it;  but  if  there's 
a  hideous  row  afterwards,  don't  blame  me." 

126 


BED  CLOTHES  127 

Egerton  is  one  of  those  men  who  pride  themselves 
on  freedom  from  conventional  prejudice.  If  he 
thinks  a  thing  is  good  from  a  literary  point  of  view 
he  does  not  care  how  bad  it  is  in  every  other  way. 
He  rather  likes  shocking  people.  I  have  had  to 
remonstrate  with  him  more  than  once.  His  hint 
about  the  nature  of  the  story  that  lay  on  my  table 
frightened  me.  I  publish  The  Tozver  Magazine  with 
the  object  of  making  money,  and  I  am  painfully 
aware  that  it  does  not  do  to  shock  the  public. 

"  Very  well,"  I  said,  "  leave  it  there.  I'll  read  it 
in  the  train  and  let  you  know  on  Monday  what  I 
think  of  it.  But  if  it's  the  kind  of  story " 

"  It  is,"  said  Egerton.  "Exactly  that  kind  of  story, 
only  worse ;  buV  itis  good.  It's — I  speak  quite 
literally — infernally  good.  I  wish  I  knew  who 
wrote  it." 

I  had  promised  to  pay  a  Saturday  to  Monday  visit 
to  my  uncle  Ambrose  in  Cambridgeshire.  I  owe  a 
little  attention  to  the  old  gentleman  in  return  for 
my  education,  which  he  paid  for,  and  for  his  kind- 
ness in  allowing  me  to  consider  his  rectory  my 
home.  He  is  rather  a  big  man  among  the  local 
clergy,  being  a  rural  dean,  a  canon  and  having  some 
reputation  as  a  scholar.  I  am  told  that  he  is  likely 
to  be  an  Archdeacon  when  the  present  man  drops 
off.  He  has  a  very  nice  parish,  a  clean  village 
inhabited,  so  far  as  I  have  ever  seen,  entirely  by 
respectful  old  women  who  curtsey  and  small  boys 
who  sing  in  the  choir.  There  is  also  a  squire,  but 


128  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

he  is  the  black  sheep  of  the  flock,  and  my  uncle  sees 
very  little  of  him.  The  village  is  near  Newmarket, 
and  the  squire  is  a  racing  man.  When  he  is  at 
home  he  has  a  houseful  of  fast  people  and  seems 
particularly  fond  of  fast  women.  None  of  his  party 
ever  go  to  church.  My  uncle  is  austerely  clerical  in 
his  outlook  upon  life.  I  quite  realise  that  he  is 
bound  to  disapprove  of  the  squire.  I  can  also,  I 
think,  understand  the  squire's  dislike  of  going  to 
church. 

I  read  Egerton's  story  in  the  train.  It  was  all  he 
said  it  was.  Guy  de  Maupassant  at  his  worst  was 
not  much  worse;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  Guy  de 
Maupassant  was  not  much  better.  It  was  a  fine,  an 
uncommonly  fine  short  story;  but  it  was  plainly 
impossible  to  publish  it.  I  stuffed  the  MS.  into  the 
bottom  of  my  bag  and  sat  for  the  rest  of  the  journey 
gloating  over  the  abominable  cleverness  of  the 
thing.  It  was  an  absolutely  straightforward,  simple 
piece  of  writing,  and  the  most  sacred  precepts  of 
morality  were  remorselessly  ridiculed.  I  felt,  as 
Egerton  did,  that  I  should  greatly  like  to  know  who 
wrote  it.  The  man  or  the  woman,  whichever  it  was, 
had  something  very  like  actual  genius. 

On  Sunday,  after  morning  service,  my  uncle 
Ambrose  took  me  for  a  stroll  round  his  garden.  He 
gave  me  his  views  on  The  Tower  Magazine,  and  I 
felt,  as  I  listened  to  him,  uncommonly  glad  that  I 
had  not  left  the  story  in  Egerton's  hands.  If  it  had 
been  published  my  uncle  would  never  have  spoken 


BED  CLOTHES  129 

to  me  again.  He  already  deplored  the  levity  of  the 
magazine  and  regretted  its  want  of  serious  matter. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  some  day  send  you 
a  paper  myself.  I  have  long  felt  that  some  attempt 
ought  to  be  made  to  instruct  our  people  in  the 
history  of  the  monastic  orders." 

This  was  an  embarrassing  suggestion.  I  owe  a 
good  deal  to  my  uncle  Ambrose,  but  I  am  running 
a  magazine  with  the  object  of  making  money.  And, 
besides,  a  paper  on  the  monastic  orders  would  not 
be  fair  to  Egerton. 

"  Surely,"  I  said,  "  your  time  must  be  too  fully 
occupied  to  allow  you  to  undertake  such  work. 
Your  contemplated  monograph  on  the  English 
Benedictines,  your  cathedral  sermons,  your  func- 
tions as  a  rural  dean,  the  round  of  your  parochial 
duties " 

"  I  have  a  curate.  Mr.  Metcalf  takes  a  great  deal 
of  routine  work  off  my  hands." 

I  reached  out  gratefully  toward  a  new  subject, 
one  less  likely  to  prove  dangerous  to  my  magazine. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  got  a  good  curate.  Is  he  all  you 
could  wish  ?  " 

Uncle  Ambrose  smiled.  No  curate  is  all  that  can 
be  wished. 

"  Metcalf  is  a  worthy  fellow,  hard-working  and 
strictly  orthodox,  a  sound  churchman ;  but  a  little 
dull.  He  is  very  far  from  being  an  intellectual  com- 
panion. You  will  be  able  to  judge  for  yourself  when 
you  hear  him  preach  this  evening." 


130  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

I  thought  it  very  unlikely  that  I  should  hear  the 
curate  preach.  I  meant  to  go  to  church,  of  course. 
I  should  have  no  choice  about  that.  But  in  my 
youth,  when  I  lived  with  uncle  Ambrose,  I  acquired 
a  faculty  of  abstracting  my  mind  from  sermons.  I 
could  now,  I  believe,  carry  on  a  complicated  train 
of  thought  undisturbed  if  St.  Chrysostom  were 
thundering  golden  words  in  a  pulpit  close  beside 
me.  Nevertheless  I  did,  very  much  to  my  surprise, 
hear  that  curate's  sermon.  At  least  I  heard  the 
latter  part  of  it.  At  first  I  was  fully  occupied  in 
going  over  in  my  mind  the  points  of  the  story  which 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  my  bag  in  the  rectory.  That 
story  was  not  a  good  subject  for  Sunday  meditation, 
especially  in  church.  But  I  am  glad  I  happened  to 
be  thinking  of  it,  for  if  my  mind  had  been  occupied 
with  anything  else  I  might  have  missed  an  interest- 
ing sensation. 

The  curate  had  been  meandering  quietly  along 
for  about  ten  minutes,  and  I  sat  enjoying  my 
author's  method  of  satirizing  a  particular  moral 
platitude  which  he  had  put  in  the  mouth  of  one  of 
the  characters  in  the  story.  Then  I  heard,  actually 
heard  with  my  ears,  the  very  words  which  the  char- 
acter in  the  story  had  used.  The  curate  said  them. 
I  sat  up,  awakened  to  consciousness  by  the  extra- 
ordinary coincidence.  A  few  minutes  later  Mr. 
Metcalf  quoted  another  sentence  out  of  the  story, 
another  of  the  moral  truisms  which  the  author  had 
made  to  look  so  supremely  contemptible.  Of  course, 


BED  CLOTHES  131 

the  curate  spoke  in  all  good  faith.  Still,  he  used  the 
very  words  spoken  by  the  character  in  the  story. 
This  was  more  than  a  coincidence.  I  very  nearly 
jumped  out  of  my  seat  when  this  amazing  curate 
concluded  his  sermon  with  the  longest  and  most 
irritating  of  all  the  speeches  of  the  fictitious  char- 
acter. He  gave  it  out  in  tones  of  calm  conviction, 
but  he  used  once  more  the  identical  words  of  the 
story. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  my  uncle  Ambrose  at  supper, 
"  that  you  must  catch  the  early  train  tomorrow  as 
usual." 

"  No,"  I  said ;  "  if  I  shan't  be  in  your  way,  I 
should  like  to  stay  till  the  afternoon.  The  fact  is 
I  want  to  have  a  chat  with  your  curate." 

My  uncle's  eyebrows  went  up  in  mild  surprise. 

"  With  my  curate !    Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  But  I  knew  a  brother  of  his  very 
well  in  college.  We  rowed  in  a  boat  together. 
The  poor  fellow  is  in  London  now.  I  fear  he  is 
going  rapidly  to  the  bad;  drink,  you  know,  and 
other  things." 

When  I  lie  I  always  do  so  with  such  detail  as  will 
carry  conviction.  It  would  be  the  curate's  business 
afterwards,  not  mine,  to  explain  that  fallen  brother. 

"  Ah,"  said  my  uncle  Ambrose.  "  Sad,  very  sad. 
You're  sure  to  find  Metcalf  in  his  lodgings  about 
eleven  o'clock.  He  takes  the  school  at  half-past 
nine,  and  matins  at  ten.  Then  he  has  the  Mothers' 


132  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Saving  Club,  which  will  occupy  him  about  half  an 
hour." 

I  found  the  Reverend  Mr.  Metcalf  at  half-past 
eleven.  He  was  writing  when  I  entered.  I  noticed 
that  he  covered  his  MS.  with  blotting  paper  as  if 
he  were  afraid  that  I  should  read  it.  It  may  have 
been  his  next  sermon.  I  chose  to  pretend  that  I 
thought  it  was  something  else. 

"  If  that  is  another  story,  Mr.  Metcalf,"  I  said, 
"  please  give  me  the  first  refusal  of  it." 

He  grew  quite  white  and  looked  at  me  with  an 
expression  of  sheer  terror  in  his  face.  For  fully 
two  minutes  he  did  not  speak.  Then  he  blurted  out : 

"Who  are  you?" 

"  I  am  the  owner  of  The  Tower  Magazine.  I  read 
a  story  you  sent  us  lately,  and  I  may  say  without 
flattery  that  it  is  a  remarkably  fine  piece  of  work. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  print  it.  It  is " 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  I  know  very  well  what  it 
is.  But  how  on  earth  did  you  know  I  wrote  it?" 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  if  you  quote  bits  of  it  in  your 
sermons " 

"Did  I  do  that?" 

"  You  did.  Oh,  don't  look  frightened.  You  didn't 
quote  any  of  the  bits  I  was  afraid  to  print.  You 
quoted,  apparently  in  all  good  faith,  the  wretched 
moral  platitudes  which  the  story  satirized." 

"  Good  Heavens !  "  he  said.  "  I  can't  have  done 
that." 


BED  CLOTHES  133 

"  Yes,  you  did,"  I  said  mercilessly.  "  You  used 
the  exact  words." 

He  stood  for  a  minute  with  his  back  toward  me 
leaning  over  the  chimney-piece.  Then  he  turned 
and  said: 

"  Listen  to  me.  Those  things  which  you  call 
moral  platitudes  are  truths.  I  believe  them.  I 
cling  to  them.  They  are  the  things  I  live  by.  They 
are  sacred.  But " 

"  But  you  see  the  comic  side  of  them." 

"  But,"  he  said,  without  taking  any  notice  of  my 
remark,  "  I  hear  them  every  day  of  my  life  and  all 
day  long.  I  hear  them  from  the  canon.  I  hear 
them  from  the  other  clergy  who  com  2  here  con- 
stantly. I  hear  them  from  the  old  women  in  the 
village  when  they  want  things  from  me.  I  hear 
them  from  my  own  lips.  I  never — do  you  under- 
stand ? — I  never  hear  anything  else.  I  believe  them. 
But  they  get  to  be  like  bed  clothes,  like  blankets 
and  quilts  laid  over  my  mouth  and  nostrils.  I'm 
smothered  by  them." 

He  gripped  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  across  the 
room  to  the  window. 

"  Look  out,"  he  said;  "what  do  you  see?" 

I  saw  the  village  post-office,  which  was  very 
nearly  opposite  the  curate's  lodgings.  There  were, 
I  noticed,  glass  jars  of  sweets  in  the  window,  as  well 
as  notices  about  the  hours  of  departure  of  the  mail. 
Mr.  Metcalf,  using  the  eye  of  imagination,  saw 


134  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

more.  He  succeeded  in  making  me  see  the  Cam- 
bridgeshire landscape. 

"  There  it  all  is,"  he  said.  "  Flat  land,  flat.  There's 
nothing  to  break  the  frightful  flatness  of  it  except 
church  spires,  sticking  up  stiff  into  the  air,  spires 
and  great  foolish  windmills.  Look  at  the  flat  fields, 
the  flat  roads,  the  flat  sky  and  those  rigid  pointed 
spires." 

While  he  was  speaking,  a  motor  car  rushed  along 
the  village  street,  a  handsome  car,  one  of  the 
squire's,  I  suppose.  In  the  tonneau  sat  a  woman 
I  recognised,  Lady  Crumlin.  Her  reputation,  in 
several  respects,  had  got  beyond  the  stage  of  being 
doubtful ;  but  she  is  a  remarkably  handsome  woman, 
and  is  always  dressed  as  if  she  owned,  instead  of 
owing,  a  large  fortune.  Mr.  Metcalf  appeared  to  be 
getting  somewhat  hysterical  over  the  scenery.  I 
attempted  to  divert  his  attention  from  it. 

"  That,"  I  said  with  a  smile,  "is  one  of  the  people 
whom  my  uncle  particularly  dislikes.  It's  a  great 
pity  they  don't  keep  up  the  old  fashion  of  going  to 
church  once  a  week  in  the  country." 

Once  more  the  curate  entirely  ignored  my  remark. 
He  had  seen  Lady  Crumlin,  but  he  was  not  thinking 
of  her  as  a  possible  member  of  his  congregation. 

"  Now  and  then,"  he  said,  "  people  come  flashing 
along  these  roads.  I  get  a  glimpse  at  them.  I  don't 
know  them.  I  don't  speak  to  them.  I  don't  see 
them  at  their  races  or  their  cards.  But  I  fancy 
sometimes  I  can  hear  the  men  laugh  or  smell  the 


BED  CLOTHES  135 

scent  off  the  women's  clothes.  It's  just  for  a 
moment.  Then  I'm  back  with  the  flatness  again; 
with  what  you  call  the  moral  platitudes;  with  the 
clergy  and  their  matins  and  evensong;  their  thin, 
sharp  spires ;  and  their  gardens,  with  little  laburnum 
trees  in  them,  and  rose  bushes,  and  strawberry  beds  ; 
and  all  the  things  they  say,  the  quite  true  things 
they  keep  on  saying  every  day.  But  they  smother 
me.  I  kick  and  plunge  to  get  air  to  breathe.  That's 
how  I  came  to  write  that  story.  I'm  not  a  vicious 
man.  I'm  not  a  hypocrite." 

"  I  don't  profess  to  enter  fully  into  your  feelings," 
I  said.  "  But  I'm  extremely  interested.  Go  on 
plunging,  by  all  means ;  but  don't  kick  all  the  bed 
clothes  off.  Remember  the  decencies  and  leave  a 
sheet.  One  sheet  won't  smother  you.  And  send 
everything  you  write  to  us.  It  will  do  you  good  to 
get  rid  of  it  even  if  we  can't  print  it." 

I  went  back  to  London  by  the  afternoon  train 
and  told  Egerton  about  the  Reverend  Mr.  Metcalf. 
He  was  greatly  interested,  and  agreed  with  me  that 
we  should  keep  an  eye  on  the  curate  with  a  view  to 
securing  something  from  him  which  it  would  be 
possible  for  us  to  publish.  I  promised  to  have  a 
talk  with  him  next  time  I  paid  a  visit  to  my  uncle. 
Unfortunately,  most  unfortunately  as  it  turned  out, 
I  was  not  able  to  get  away  from  the  office  for  nearly 
two  months.  Then,  when  I  was  in  a  position  to  run 
down  to  Cambridgeshire  for  a  couple  of  days,  I 
heard  that  my  uncle  was  ill.  The  doctor,  who  was 


136  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

evidently  a  man  with  some  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  said  that  the  old  gentleman  had  broken 
down  from  over-work,  and  ordered  him  abroad  for 
six  months'  complete  rest.  I  never  myself  met  any- 
one who  seemed  to  do  less  work  than  my  reverend 
relative ;  but,  of  course,  the  mental  strain  of  being  a 
rural  dean  may  very  well  be  greater  than  I  suppose. 
At  all  events  my  uncle  went  abroad  and  was  evi- 
dently very  well  pleased  both  with  himself  and  the 
doctor.  I  saw  him  when  he  was  passing  through 
London,  and  he  was  simply  puffed  up  with  pride 
and  self-importance.  I  did  not  grudge  him  his 
holiday  in  the  least,  but,  being  a  busy  man  in  my 
own  way,  I  resented  the  way  in  which  he  insisted 
on  regarding  himself  as  a  martyr  to  duty. 

He  stayed  away,  somewhere  in  northern  Italy, 
for  two  months  longer  than  the  doctor  ordered,  and 
it  was  nearly  a  year  before  I  visited  him  in  his 
rectory  again.  I  found  a  new  curate  in  the  parish 
and  inquired  what  had  happened  to  Mr.  Metcalf. 

"  Metcalf,"  said  my  uncle,  "  behaved  badly." 

He  seemed  disinclined  to  enter  into  particulars, 
but  I  was  really  anxious  to  hear  about  Metcalf. 

"  Did  he,"  I  suggested,  "  get  mixed  up  with  the 
squire  and  his  lot  when  you  weren't  here  to  look 
after  him  ?  " 

"  No.  Not  that  I  heard  of.  When  I  say  that  he 
behaved  badly,  I  mean  toward  me  personally.  He 
agreed,  distinctly  and  definitely,  though  I  did  not 
have  it  in  writing,  to  remain  here  and  look  after  the 


BED  CLOTHES  137 

parish  while  I  was  away.  He  left  suddenly  and 
without  adequate  reason  almost  immediately  after 
I  had  gone  abroad." 

"  Very  inconsiderate,"  I  said.  "  Where  did  he 
goto?" 

"  I  never  cared  to  inquire.  If  he  had  been  offered 
a  living  there  would  have  been  some  excuse  for  it. 
But  there  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  was  too 
young  a  man  to  be  promoted.  Fortunately  the 
Bishop  was  extremely  kind  and  secured  the  man  I 
have  at  present." 

"  Do  you  ever  hear  from  Metcalf  ?  " 

"  No.  He  has  not  had  the  decency  to  write  to 
me.  Considering  that  I  was  exceedingly  kind  to 
him — I  think,  by  the  way,  I  met  that  brother  of  his 
in  London  on  my  way  home." 

"Brother?" 

"  Yes,  the  unfortunate  young  man  of  whom  you 
spoke  to  me.  I  saw  him  in  the  Strand  on  the  morn- 
ing of  my  arrival.  I  don't  think  I  could  have  been 
mistaken.  The  likeness  was  most  striking." 

I  said  nothing,  because  I  could  not  for  the 
moment  recollect  ever  having  heard  of  Metcalf's 
brother.  Afterwards,  when  my  uncle  spoke  again, 
the  story  of  that  poor  fellow  came  back  to  me. 

"  Metcalf  was  scarcely  straightforward  about  his 
brother,"  said  my  uncle.  "  I  mentioned  to  him  one 
day  that  I  was  glad  to  hear  you  were  looking  after 
the  young  fellow.  Metcalf  appeared  to  be  embar- 
rassed when  he  heard  your  name,  but  he  denied 


138  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

flatly  that  he  had  a  brother.  I  can  quite  understand 
a  certain  amount  of  reticence.  The  subject  wasn't 
a  pleasant  one.  Still,  I  spoke  in  a  most  sympathetic 
way,  and  I  expected,  as  between  two  clergymen, 
that  he  would  have  been  more  candid." 

I  recollected  the  brother  then.  I  had  myself 
called  him  into  existence  as  an  excuse  for  my  visit 
to  the  original  Metcalf.  I  became  greatly  inter- 
ested. 

"  You're  quite  sure,"  I  said,  "  that  it  was " 

"  I  did  not  speak  to  him,"  said  my  uncle.  "  He 
hurried  past  me,  but  the  likeness  was  unmistakable. 
In  fact,  I  should  have  thought  it  was  Metcalf  him- 
self if  I  had  not  recollected  what  you  told  me  about 
the  brother.  Have  you  seem  him  lately?" 

"  No.    I  have  completely  lost  sight  of  him." 

"Judging  from  his  appearance,"  said  my  uncle, 
"  I  should  say  he  had  sunk  very  low,  very  low 
indeed.  There  was  every  mark  of  dissipation  about 
him." 

"Poor  fellow,"  I  said,  "he  has  kicked  the  bed 
clothes  off  in  earnest  then." 

"The  bedclothes?" 

"  It's  a  slang  phrase,"  I  said ;  "  I  dare  say  you 
never  heard  it.  It  means " 

"  I  can  guess  at  the  meaning,  especially  after 
seeing  Metcalf's  brother.  You  ought  to  try  if  you 
come  across  him  to " 

"  I  shall,"  I  said.  "  I'll  do  the  best  I  can.  I'll 
tell  Egerton  about  him,  and  between  us  we'll  try 


BED  CLOTHES  139 

and  get  hold  of  him.     We'll  pull  him  together  if 
we  can." 

I  meant  it,  and  I  am  sure  that  Egerton,  with  the 
recollection  of  that  story  in  his  mind,  would  have 
done  his  best.  But  neither  he  nor  I  have  ever  been 
able  to  hear  of  Metcalf.  He  has  gone  under  alto- 
gether, I  suppose.  I  often  wonder  whose  fault  it 
was.  The  squire  and  Lady  Crumlin  are  perhaps  to 
blame  to  some  extent.  My  uncle  Ambrose  and  the 
clergy  of  his  rural  deanery  have  a  certain  responsi- 
bility. My  own  conscience  is  not  wholly  clear.  The 
landscape  of  Cambridgeshire  and  the  church 
spires — poor  Metcalf  felt  those  spires  greatly — have 
their  share  of  the  blame.  But  there  may  be  some- 
thing more.  Ought  the  Christian  religion  to  look 
hopelessly  flat  to  a  man?  Ought  it  to  affect  him 
as  an  eiderdown  quilt  spread  over  his  mouth? 


IX.— THE  CHILD  OF  OUR  HOPE 

CHARLIE  FETHERSTON  was  a  barrister,  a 
man  with  good  manners,  a  man  of  brains,  and 
he  possessed,  though  he  concealed  the  fact,  a  soul. 
Most  people  in  Dublin,  that  is  to  say  in  Dublin 
society,  liked  him  for  his  good  manners,  admired 
him  for  his  brains,  and  did  not  distrust  him,  because 
they  were  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  his  soul.  On 
the  other  hand,  his  aunt,  Lady  Honoria  Burke,  loved 
him  for  the  sake  of  his  soul.  She  discovered  it  in 
spite  of  his  good  manners  and  his  brains.  She  had 
a  curious  power  of  recognising  hidden  possibilities 
in  unlikely  people.  Charlie  Fetherston,  on  his  part, 
had  a  real  affection  for  his  aunt.  He  described  her, 
to  the  friends  who  appreciated  his  manners  and  his 
brains,  as  "  queer,  decidedly  queer,  but  a  good  sort, 
and  very  comfortably  off."  In  reality  she  attracted 
him  because  she  talked  to  him,  with  simple  direct- 
ness, about  things  which  neither  he  nor  she  under- 
stood, but  which  roused  emotions.  One  evening 
in  November,  in  response  to  an  invitation,  Charlie 
Fetherston  arrived  at  his  aunt's  house.  She  greeted 
him  solemnly,  and  motioned  him  to  sit  down.  She 
sat  opposite  to  him  on  a  high,  straight-backed  chair. 
The  room  was  only  lighted  by  the  fire. 

140 


THE  CHILD  OF  OUR  HOPE          141 

"  I  have  seen,"  said  Lady  Honoria,  without 
preface,  "the  Child  of  our  Hope." 

Charlie  knew  that  his  aunt  looked  for  the  coming 
of  a  Celtic  Messiah,  a  mysterious  prophet  who  was 
to  redeem  Ireland  from  bondage,  and,  through 
Ireland,  the  world  from  materialism.  He  didn't 
himself  believe  that  any  such  person  was  the  least 
likely  to  appear;  but  it  interested  him  to  hear  his 
aunt  talk.  He  waited,  half  amused,  half  impressed, 
for  an  account  of  the  revelation. 

"  I  was  returning  last  week  from  the  visit  which 
I  pay  every  year  to  my  brother  at  Dunrigh.  You 
know  what  Lord  Beverly  is  like,  and  how  my  spirit 
is  tried  when  I  am  in  his  house.  I  am  regarded  by 
his  friends  as  eccentric ;  and  I  am  obliged  to  eat 
meat,  sometimes  even  twice  a  day,  lest  they  should 
think  of  me  as  very  troublesome.  The  talk  is  about 
politics  and  shooting  birds,  and  such  things.  In 
the  evening  I  am  often  asked  to  tell  fortunes  from 
the  hands  of  giggling  girls.  For  a  long  time  after 
a  return  from  Dunrigh,  I  am  unable  to  recover  the 
faculty.  I  mention  these  things  to  you  to  show 
that  on  my  way  back  to  Dublin  I  was  in  no  way 
predisposed  to  see  visions  and  dream  dreams. 

"  I  reached  Athlone ;  and  there  I  was  obliged  to 
get  out  in  order  to  change  into  another  train.  I 
waited  on  the  platform,  and  mused  on  the  faces  of 
the  people  around  me,  wondering  that  they  were 
all  so  commonplace.  There  was  not  one  that  had 
the  capacity  for  spiritual  life  written  on  it.  Then  a 


142  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

young  woman  came  near  me,  bearing  a  child  in  her 
arms.  I  noticed  that  she  was  shabbily  dressed,  and 
that  she  did  not  look  like  one  of  our  country-women. 
Then  I  saw  her  no  more,  for  my  whole  attention 
was  fixed  on  the  child  she  was  carrying.  He  was  a 
big  child,  perhaps  four  years  old,  too  big  for  a 
woman  to  have  in  her  arms ;  but  he  looked  ill,  and 
that,  no  doubt,  was  her  reason  for  carrying  him. 
I  saw,  faintly  indicated,  a  blue  halo  round  his  head. 
I  strained  myself  to  the  uttermost  to  reach  the 
vision  perfectly,  and  by  degrees  the  halo  became 
clear  to  me.  It  was  bright  blue,  like  an  Italian  sky, 
and  exceedingly  beautiful.  I  gazed  steadily  and 
saw  poised  above  the  child  a  golden  figure,  armed 
triumphantly.  It  was  infinitely  splendid.  I  knew 
then,  beyond  the  possibility  of  any  doubt,  that  he 
was  the  Child  of  our  Hope. 

"  Before  I  could  speak  to  her,  the  mother  passed 
by  me  and  crossed  the  bridge  to  the  opposite  plat- 
form. I  followed  her  without  hesitation,  and  saw 
her  get  into  a  train  which  stood  ready  to  go  west- 
wards. There  was  no  time  for  me  to  do  anything 
except  step  into  the  nearest  carriage.  I  was,  of 
course,  bent  upon  going  with  her.  She  got  out  at 
the  next  station — a  mere  platform  by  the  roadside. 
The  name  written  on  the  notice  board  was  Knock- 
croghery,  which,  as  you  know,  means  *  hill  of  the 
hangman.'  I  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  it  in 
astonishment,  asking  myself  what  fate  might  lie 
in  the  coming  of  the  Child  of  our  Hope  from  a  place 


THE  CHILD  OF  OUR  HOPE          143 

with  such  a  name.  Then  the  stationmaster  came 
and  troubled  me  about  a  ticket.  I  had  no  ticket, 
for  I  had  never  thought  of  buying  one ;  but  I  offered 
to  satisfy  him  by  giving  money.  While  I  was  seek- 
ing for  my  purse  I  saw  the  woman  going  along  the 
road  from  the  station.  I  was  more  sure  than  ever 
that  she  was  a  foreigner,  because  she  carried  the 
child  on  her  back,  having  wrapped  him  in  a  shawl 
and  brought  the  ends  of  it  across  her  shoulders. 
None  of  our  country-women,  except  the  tinkers' 
wives,  carry  children  in  this  way.  I  asked  the  man 
who  she  was,  and  where  she  lived.  He  said :  '  Is 
it  poor  Mrs.  Cane  you  mean,  ma'am?  She  lives  at 
Cuslough,  two  miles  along  the  road.  She  was  up 
to  Athlone  with  her  boy,  taking  him  to  the  doctor. 
She  was  telling  me  that  he  was  very  bad.  Indeed, 
it's  trouble  enough  she  has,  poor  lady,  without  that.1 

"  I  wondered  that  he  should  speak  of  her  as 
'  poor,'  who  was  the  mother  of  the  Child  of  our 
Hope,  and  I  thought  how  generations  after  would 
call  her  blessed.  Then  I  asked  the  man  the  way  to 
Cuslough. 

: '  It's  two  miles  if  you  follow  the  road,  ma'am, 
and  you  can't  miss  it ;  for  it's  the  first  house  you 
see  when  you  come  at  the  lake ;  but  you  could  save 
half  the  distance  by  crossing  the  bog,  and  it  won't 
be  soft  this  weather.' 

"  I  thought  that  the  woman  would  go  by  the 
shorter  way,  and  that  I  might  overtake  her.  How- 
ever, I  did  not  see  her;  but  I  lost  my  way,  and 


144  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

wandered  through  the  bog,  so  that  a  full  hour 
passed  before  I  reached  Cuslough.  It  was  a  very 
gloomy  house,  standing  low  down  near  the  lake- 
shore,  and  altogether  surrounded  and  overshadowed 
by  trees.  I  went  up  to  it  along  a  dark  walk,  soft 
under  foot  with  fallen  leaves,  and  grey,  knee-deep 
with  mist.  I  knocked,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
I  knocked  again  and  again  and  waited,  but  no  one 
came  to  me.  At  last  I  heard  a  child  crying  inside. 
The  knowledge  that  trouble  was  on  the  Child  of  our 
Hope  made  me  bold,  so  that  I  went  round  to  the 
back  of  the  house.  I  came  to  the  yard ;  it  was  very 
dirty  and  untidy ;  and  opposite  me  I  saw  some  hens 
and  chickens  pecking  oats  which  had  been  scat- 
tered on  the  ground  for  them.  I  turned  and  saw, 
standing  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  the  woman,  the 
mother  of  the  child.  She  had  a  gun.  The  barrel 
of  it  was  resting  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  she 
seemed  about  to  fire  it  off.  It  pointed  towards  the 
hens.  I  was  astonished,  and  cried  out  to  her.  She 
answered  me,  speaking  English  correctly,  but  in  the 
manner  of  a  Frenchwoman. 

" '  I  want  to  kill  one  of  them,  a  chicken  for  the 
boy.  The  doctor  said  I  was  to  give  him  chicken- 
soup  and  chicken-jelly.  I  am  able  to  make  the 
soup  and  jelly  very  well ;  but  never,  never  have  I 
killed  a  chicken.  In  my  country  one  buys  them 
dead  in  the  shops.  It  is  altogether  horrible;  but 
I  must  kill  it.  I  thought  of  other  ways;  but  I 
could  not,  no,  I  could  not,  do  it.  It  seemed  easier 


THE  CHILD  OF  OUR  HOPE          145 

thus  with  the  gun.  And  now  I  am  afraid  to  shoot.' 
"  *  My  dear/  I  said.  She  was  so  helpless  and 
frightened  that  she  seemed  like  a  young  girl  to 
me,  though  she  was  the  mother  of  the  Child  of  our 
Hope.  *  Have  you  no  one  to  kill  the  chicken  for 
you?  Is  there  no  servant?' 

"  *  I  had  one,'  she  said,  '  but  she  went  away  from 

me  last  week.    She  would  not  stay,  because ' 

"  She  stopped,  seeming  to  think  that  I  would 
guess  the  reason.  I  did  not  wish  to  try,  because 
the  thing  most  in  my  mind  was  the  need  of  getting 
the  chicken  killed.  I  asked: 

"  '  Where  is  your  husband  ? '  knowing  that  there 
must  be  a  husband  somewhere  because  she  had  a 
gun. 

"  '  He !  Bah !  He  is  in  there  asleep.' 
"Afterwards,  when  I  went  into  the  house,  I 
understood  her  scorn.  The  man  lay  drunk  upon  the 
floor  of  the  sitting-room.  His  face  was  bloated 
and  coarse  almost  beyond  belief;  but  I  knew  him. 
You  will  remember  hearing  of  James  Cane,  the 
brilliant  barrister  who  made  the  speeches  touched 
with  genius.  He  was  a  Member  of  Parliament  for 
a  while,  though  it  was  never  possible  to  under- 
stand how  he,  for  he  had  genius,  could  join  himself 
to  those  or  go  there.  We  lost  sight  of  him ;  but  I 
always  thought  that  we  should  hear  of  him  again. 
Well,  it  was  there  I  found  him,  drunk,  while  his 
child  lay  sick.  It  was  a  very  sad  thing  to  me  to 
see  him  there.  But  I  understood  how  he  might  be 


146  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

the  father  of  the  child.  It  is  true  that  he  went 
under,  but  he  had  genius  once. 

"  The  young  woman  still  held  the  gun,  and  I 
knew  that  if  she  pulled  the  trigger,  she  would  shoot 
all  her  pretty  fowls.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
myself  must  kill  the  chicken,  and  I  asked  her  for 
a  knife. 

" '  Now,  my  dear,  you  are  a  young  woman,  and 
I  am  an  old  one.  You  must  catch  the  chicken,  and 
then  you  may  go  into  the  kitchen.' 

"  I  will  not  tell  you  how  I  did  it,  though  the 
recollection  will  always  be  with  me  and  haunt  me 
in  my  dreams  at  night.  It  was  a  very  terrible  thing 
for  me  to  do,  because  I  am  a  lover  of  all  things  that 
live,  and  I  never  willingly  eat  of  food  got  by  the 
sacrifice  of  life.  Yet  I  made  my  heart  hard  and  did 
it,  thinking  of  the  Child  of  our  Hope,  and  that  I 
had  heard  him  cry. 

"  Afterwards  she  made  the  broth,  while  I  sat 
beside  the  child's  cot  and  tried  to  soothe  him.  The 
beautiful  blue  halo  was  always  round  his  head,  and 
the  figure,  the  glorious  blazing  figure,  poised  over 
him.  It  made  me  brave  and  patient  to  see  it  there. 
When  the  mother  came  in,  we  tried  to  make  him 
take  the  broth;  but  he  would  not.  He  fought 
against  us,  and  for  all  that  we  could  do  he  would 
not  take  it.  After  a  while  we  gave  it  up  and  she 
took  him  in  her  arms  and  held  him,  singing  little 
French  songs  to  quiet  him.  I  was  not  able  to  help 
her  because  I  have  no  skill  with  little  children.  I 


THE  CHILD  OF  OUR  HOPE          147 

suppose  this  is  because  I  do  not  love  them  much, 
never  having  had  any  child  of  my  own.  But  I 
loved  this  child  for  the  sake  of  the  great  hope  that 
was  in  me.  So  I  knelt  beside  her,  and  prayed  for 
his  life.  Quickly,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  the  daylight 
faded  away,  and  it  came  to  be  evening  and  then 
night.  Still  I  prayed,  and  I  could  hear  her  singing 
softly  and  rocking  him  to  and  fro  in  her  arms.  It 
grew  very  dark.  I  did  not  think  that  any  night 
was  so  dark  as  that  one  was.  I  could  see  nothing 
except  the  shine  of  the  blue  halo  moving  gently 
from  side  to  side  as  she  swayed  the  child.  When 
I  got  weary  praying,  I  looked  at  it  and  took  courage 
and  fresh  strength  from  it.  Once,  it  must  have  been 
early  in  the  morning,  I  missed  the  halo.  I  gazed 
with  all  my  might,  but  I  could  not  see  it.  Then  I 
knew  that  the  child  was  dead.  I  remembered  that 
for  some  time  he  had  not  cried.  I  did  not  tell  her 
that  he  was  dead,  for  she  had  ceased  singing  and 
sat  still,  so  that  I  thought  she  slept.  Perhaps  after 
that  I  slept  too,  huddled  on  the  floor  beside  her. 
When  I  next  remember  anything,  the  morning  light 
was  coming  into  the  room.  She  was  awake  also ; 
but  she  did  not  know  even  then  that  the  child  was 
dead.  She  was  rocking  him  in  her  arms  as  she  had 
done  before,  and  singing  her  foolish  little  songs  to 
him. 

"  Then,  I  think  it  must  have  been  about  seven 
o'clock,  I  heard  a  voice  in  the  next  room,  and  the 
man  rose  and  came  into  the  chamber  where  we 


148  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

were.  When  he  saw  me,  he  stopped  and  stared. 
Then  he  began  to  curse  me  and  his  wife.  I  can- 
not remember,  I  do  not  think  I  really  heard,  the 
words  he  said  or  the  names  he  called  us.  I  looked 
at  her,  but  she  seemed  neither  surprised  nor 
frightened. 

"  *  You  had  better  go  away/  she  said ;  '  you  have 
been  very  kind  to  me,  but  it  is  not  right  that  you 
should  stay  for  this.  Besides,  if  you  go,  he  will  be 
quiet,  perhaps,  and  will  not  wake  the  child.' 

"  I  knew  that  he  could  not  wake  the  child.  I  went 
over  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek;  then  I  kissed 
the  dead  lips  of  the  Child  of  our  Hope,  and  signed 
him  with  the  cross  upon  the  forehead.  The  man 
followed  me  out  of  the  house  and  a  little  way  along 
the  road,  cursing  me.  But  I  did  not  care. 

"  Now,  Charlie,  I  have  told  you  what  I  brought 
you  here  to  tell.  I  have  seen  the  Child  of  our  Hope. 
He  was  with  us,  but  he  is  gone  again.  Can  you  tell 
me  what  it  means?" 

Charles  Fetherston  looked  at  her.  Then  he  rose 
slowly,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  hers. 

"  Good-night,  Aunt  Honoria.  I  do  not  know  what 
to  say  to  you,  or  what  to  think." 

"  But  how  it  is  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  cannot  under- 
stand. He  was  with  us  and  is  gone,  and  nothing 
seems  to  come  of  it?" 

At  the  door  Charles  turned. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  "  she,  the  young  woman,  the 
mother,  may  have  another  child  some  day." 


.      X.— MAD  ANTONY 

•pATHER  LARRY  O'NEILL,  the  parish  priest 
*-  of  Curraghmore,  was  a  deservedly  popular  man 
with  all  classes  of  the  community.  The  neighbour- 
ing Protestant  gentry  described  him  as  "a  thor- 
oughly good  sort,"  which  was  high  tribute  to  his 
worth,  for  as  a  class  the  Protestant  gentry  are  not 
inclined  to  be  friendly  to  priests.  But  Father  Larry 
was  an  exceptional  man.  He  subscribed  liberally  to 
projects  in  which  the  gentry  were  interested,  such 
as  flower  shows  and  yacht  races.  He  never  made 
political  speeches,  and  his  manners  were  so  delight- 
fully friendly  and  cheerful  that  no  one  could  resist 
him  for  very  long.  The  other  gentlemen,  those  who 
represented  the  county  in  Parliament,  and  their 
political  friends  in  the  neighbourhood,  spoke  very 
highly  of  Father  Larry,  in  spite  of  his  want  of  inter- 
est in  their  favourite  pursuit.  He  didn't  like  them 
to  fire  off  orations  at  his  parishioners,  but  he  was 
always  pleased  to  entertain  them  hospitably  at  the 
Presbytery.  The  food  and  drink  he  provided  for 
them  were  of  the  best,  and  many  a  man  was  well 
content  to  keep  his  eloquence  bottled  up  for  the 
sake  of  enjoying  the  uncorking  of  Father  Larry's 
excellent  champagne.  His  own  parishioners  adored 
him,  because  he  was  singularly  inexacting  in  the 

149 


150  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

matter  of  dues  and  fees,  and  never  wanted  to  raise 
money  for  the  building  of  a  new  church. 

All  this  was  possible,  because  Father  Larry  was 
a  well-off  man.  Shortly  after  leaving  Maynooth  he 
inherited  a  considerable  fortune  from  an  uncle,  who 
had  made  money  as  a  contractor  in  a  midland  town. 
In  his  earlier,  unmoneyed  days,  Larry  O'Neill  had 
been  a  cause  of  a  good  deal  of  perplexity  to  his 
relations  and  ecclesiastical  superiors.  He  was  relig- 
ious, which  is  proper  and  desirable  in  a  candidate 
for  the  priesthood ;  but  he  was  religious  in  an  eccen- 
tric way,  which  nobody  quite  understood.  He  prac- 
tised privately  forms  of  asceticism  which,  if  not 
actually  heretical,  were  certainly  unusual  and  sus- 
picious. He  read  with  enthusiastic  admiration  the 
lives  of  saints,  which  was  right ;  but  he  appeared  to 
want  to  imitate  the  extravagances  of  the  saints, 
which  was  clearly  undesirable.  Nothing  would  be  a 
greater  nuisance  in  Ireland  to-day  than  an  Antony 
or  a  Francis  of  the  primitive  or  mediaeval  pattern. 
But  the  acquisition  of  money  sobered  Father  Larry. 
He  put  the  saints  in  their  proper  places  at  the  back 
of  his  mind,  and  set  to  work  to  realise  a  Christian- 
ity of  a  more  practical  kind  than  theirs. 

Being  rich  and  therefore  comfortable  himself  he 
wanted  to  make  everyone  else  comfortable  too,  as 
far  as  possible.  Unfortunately,  it  wasn't  easy  to  do 
this  at  Curraghmore.  The  people  were  half  farmers, 
half  fishermen.  Neither  industry  by  itself  offers 
any  prospect  of  wealth  in  the  west  of  Ireland,  and 


MAD  ANTONY  151 

a  combination  of  the  two  results,  as  a  rule,  in  hope- 
less poverty.  It  was  not  enough  to  refrain  from 
demanding  subscriptions  and  fees  from  such  people. 
It  appeared  necessary  to  adopt  some  means  for 
bringing  more  money  into  the  parish. 

Meditating  on  ways  of  relieving  the  poverty  of 
his  people,  Father  Larry's  thoughts  turned  naturally 
to  the  Government. 

There  is  nothing  the  Government — any  Govern- 
ment— enjoys  more  than  spending  money  in  the 
west  of  Ireland.  There  exist  all  sorts  of  organisa- 
tions, officers,  boards,  departments,  and  officials  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  spending  money  in  Connaught 
and  similar  places.  If  you  bring  proper  influences 
to  bear  on  it,  the  Government,  through  one  or 
another  of  its  boards,  will  give  you  almost  any- 
thing you  want — a  bull,  a  pig,  a  horse,  a  flock  of 
hens,  or  a  hive  of  bees.  It  will  supply  fishing  boats, 
nets  and  apparatus  for  curing  any  creatures  you 
may  happen  to  catch.  It  will  buy  you  a  farm,  build 
you  a  pig-sty,  plant  you  an  apple  tree,  or,  if  you 
prefer  it,  teach  your  daughter  to  make  crochet. 
Father  Larry,  after  a  careful  survery  of  the  field  of 
its  activities,  decided  to  have  a  pier.  Neither  he 
nor  his  parishioners  wanted  such  a  thing  in  the 
least.  If  some  slave  of  a  lamp  had  dumped  down 
a  ready-made  pier  on  their  coast  they  would  prob- 
ably have  petitioned  the  Government  to  have  the 
thing  carted  away.  What  they  did  want  was  the 
opportunity  of  earning  good  wages;  and  a  pier, 


152  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

planned  by  Father  Larry,  and  built  under  the  super- 
intendence of  a  Government  engineer,  would  cost  a 
great  deal. 

Once  his  mind  was  made  up,  Father  Larry  went 
to  work  with  vigour.  Dublin  Castle  and  the  adja- 
cent offices  were  bombarded  with  letters  from 
members  of  Parliament  and  councillors — county, 
district,  and  urban — who  had  feasted  at  Curragh- 
more  Presbytery.  The  gentry,  with  the  recollection 
of  handsome  subscriptions  in  their  minds,  used  their 
influence.  Father  Larry  himself  had  interviews 
with  the  Chief  Secretary,  who  is  ex-officio  chairman 
of  every  board.  The  natural  result  followed.  Peo- 
ple who  only  wanted  chickens  or  crochet  hooks,  and 
had  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  erect  powerful 
batteries,  were  told  to  wait  awhile,  and  Mr.  Simp- 
son, B.E.,  was  sent  down  to  Curraghmore  to  choose 
a  site  for  the  new  pier. 

Now  Father  Larry  and  his  parishioners  had 
already  decided  that  the  pier  was  to  be  built  on  the 
end  of  a  remote  promontory — a  site  which  offered 
several  advantages.  The  nearest  house  was  two 
miles  distant,  so  no  one  would  be  disturbed  by  the 
progress  of  the  work.  There  was  no  road  to  the 
place,  so  it  would  cost  a  good  deal  to  get  the  build- 
ing materials  there.  The  sea  outside  was  so  rocky 
and  shallow  that  boats  never  went  within  a  mile 
of  it,  therefore  the  thing  when  finished  would  not 
interfere  with  the  fishing  or  be  in  anybody's  way. 
The  situation  was,  in  fact,  an  ideal  one  for  a  Govern- 


MAD  ANTONY  153 

ment  pier,  and  nothing  remained  except  to  explain 
its  advantages  to  the  engineer. 

Father  Larry  met  him  at  the  railway  station,  and 
drove  him  to  the  Presbytery  behind  a  fast  cob. 
There  was  an  excellent  luncheon,  a  bottle  of  claret, 
and  a  good  cigar.  Then  the  cob  was  put  to  again, 
and  trotted  out  to  the  place  where  the  road  stopped. 
From  this  point  a  view  was  obtained  of  the  shore 
which  the  pier  was  to  adorn.  Mr.  Simpson,  though 
he  had  only  recently  emerged  from  the  Trinity  Col- 
lege Engineering  School,  was  a  shrewd  youth.  He 
knew  that  his  tenure  of  office  depended  not  upon 
the  utility  of  the  piers  he  built,  but  on  his  planning 
the  expenditure  of  money  in  ways  agreeable  to 
local  authorities  like  Father  Larry.  He  wrote  a 
report,  in  which  he  strongly  recommended  the  site 
selected. 

Early  in  the  following  May  the  work  commenced. 
Father  Larry  took  the  greatest  interest  in  all  that 
was  done,  and  invited  Mr.  Simpson  to  a  six  o'clock 
dinner  on  the  day  when  the  first  stone  was  laid. 
The  food  and  drink  were  of  the  best,  and  it  was 
half-past  seven  when  the  two  men  emerged,  in 
benignant  humour,  to  smoke  on  the  lawn  in  front 
of  the  Presbytery. 

"  A  queer  thing  happened  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Simp- 
son. "  Shortly  after  we  started  work  the  funniest 
looking  old  chappie  you  ever  saw  came  out  of  a 
cave  in  the  rock  at  the  end  of  the  beach.  He  stood 
looking  at  us  for  a  long  time.  I  give  you  my  word 


154  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

I  never  saw  such  a  scarecrow  in  all  my  life.  He 
looked  so  infernally  wretched  that  I  offered  him 
sixpence.  You'll  hardly  believe  me,  but  the 
creature  refused  it." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Father  Larry,  "  now  that  would  be 
Mad  Antony." 

"  You  know  him  then  ?  " 

"  I  do  not ;  but  I've  heard  of  him.  He  was  a 
scnoolmaster  once,  but  he  went  clean  off  his  head, 
and  took  to  living  in  a  cave.  The  country  people 
send  their  children  to  him  with  cold  potatoes  and 
a  jug  of  buttermilk  when  they  have  any  to  spare. 
He's  harmless,  I  believe,  but  quite  mad." 

"  He  must  be,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  with  convic- 
tion. "Fancy  his  refusing  the  sixpense!  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  him ;  you'd  have  laughed !  His 
— By  Jove !  I  believe  this  is  the  old  chappie  himself 
coming  to  pay  you  a  visit ! " 

Father  Larry  looked  round.  A  man,  oddly 
enough  attired  to  justify  the  anticipated  mirth, 
approached  them  slowly.  The  remains  of  a  pair  of 
trousers  hung  in  a  ragged  fringe  a  little  below  his 
knees.  There  were  no  buttons  on  them,  but  pieces 
of  strings  were  laced  through  holes  in  the  mate- 
rial and  tied  in  knots.  A  bawneen,  no  longer  white, 
but  brown  with  age  and  want  of  washing  was 
fastened  in  the  same  way  across  his  chest.  Over 
his  shoulders,  like  a  kind  of  mantle,  hung  a  dilapi- 
dated sack.  His  head  and  feet  were  bare.  The 
man  was  more  miserable  looking  than  any  one 


MAD  ANTONY  155 

whom  Father  Larry  had  ever  seen.  He  fumbled 
in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  half-a-crown.  The  man 
shook  his  head. 

"  Food !  "  he  said. 

"  Go  round  to  the  back  door,  my  poor  man,"  said 
the  priest,  "  and  tell  my  housekeeper  to  give  you 
your  dinner." 

"  It  is  yourself  and  no  one  else  who  must  giye 
me  food." 

Father  Larry  looked  up,  for  the  words  surprised 
him.  He  saw  two  clear  blue  eyes,  looking  into  his, 
and  their  expression  puzzled  him.  They  neither 
supplicated  like  a  beggar's  eyes  nor  glowed  with 
sulky  envy  like  a  tramp's.  It  seemed — only  the 
thing  was  manifestly  absurd — that  Mad  Antony 
looked  at  him  with  pity.  For  a  minute  the  men 
gazed  at  each  other,  and  then  it  was  the  priest's 
eyes  which  dropped.  He  was  harassed  with  a  feel- 
ing that  he  had  seen  the  man  before,  but  where  or 
when  he  could  not  recollect.  He  got  up,  went  into 
the  house,  and  returned  with  half  a  loaf  of  bread. 
Mad  Antony  took  it  without  a  word,  recrossed  the 
lawn,  and  disappeared  through  the  gate. 

Soon,  for  the  evenings  in  May  grow  chilly  after 
sunset,  Father  Larry  and  Mr.  Simpson  went  into 
the  house.  At  ten  o'clock  the  engineer,  pleading 
the  necessity  of  early  rising,  took  his  leave.  Father 
Larry  stood  on  the  doorstep,  watched  him  wheel 
his  bicycle  down  the  drive,  and  heard  the  gate  shut 


156  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

after  him.  As  he  turned  to  re-enter  the  house  he 
was  startled  by  a  shout : 

"  Father  O'Neill !  Hallo !  Here's  this  ridiculous 
old  ragman  sitting  just  outside  your  gate  with  the 
chunk  of  bread  you  gave  him  in  his  hand.  I  thought 
you'd  like  to  know.  Better  bar  your  doors  and 
windows !  Good-night !  " 

Father  Larry  had  his  glass  of  whiskey  and  water, 
and  went  to  bed.  Instead  of  dropping  straight  off 
to  sleep,  as  a  man  with  a  clear  conscience  and  a 
balance  in  the  bank  has  a  right  to  do,  he  lay  and 
tossed  uneasily.  Mad  Antony's  eyes  vexed  him 
because  of  their  peculiar  expression,  and  because 
he  could  not  understand  why  they  seemed  familiar. 
Also,  for  his  heart  was  kind,  the  thought  of  the 
poor  wretch  shelterless  on  the  roadside  hurt  him. 
At  last  the  trouble  of  his  mind  became  intolerable. 
He  got  up,  put  on  a  dressing-gown,  and  went  out 
to  look  for  the  man.  The  night  was  calm,  and  by 
the  light  of  his  bedroom  candle  he  discovered  him 
crouched  beside  the  gatepost.  He  took  him  by 
the  hand — the  cold  of  it  chilled  his  own — and  led 
him  into  the  Presbytery.  He  piled  turf  on  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  blew  it  into  a  blaze.  Then  he 
set  out  the  remains  of  the  dinner  and  a  bottle  of 
whiskey.  His  heart  glowed  with  a  desire  to  feed 
and  warm  the  miserable  creature  before  him. 

"  Come,  my  poor  man,"  he  said,  "  eat  and  drink. 
You  shall  sleep  to-night  before  the  fire;  to-morrow 


MAD  ANTONY  157 

I'll  get  you  a  suit  of  clothes,  and  we'll  see  what  can 
be  done  for  you." 

But  the  man  made  no  move  to  take  the  food. 
He  looked  intently  at  the  priest,  and  the  same  inex- 
plicable pity  was  in  his  eyes. 

"  Larry,"  he  said  at  last,  "  have  you  forgotten 
me — Antony  Callaghan,  of  Clooneen,  who  went  to 
be  a  schoolmaster?" 

"  My  God ! "  said  the  priest,  "  is  it  you  indeed, 
Antony?  What  has  brought  you  to  this?" 

"  To  this ! "  Mad  Antony  said  no  more,  but  there 
was  a  ring  of  triumph  in  his  voice,  and  his  face 
lighted  up  suddenly  with  an  expression  of  great  joy. 
Father  Larry  could  not  in  the  least  understand 
what  the  strange  exultation  meant,  only  he  knew 
very  well  that  the  man  was  not  mad.  Then,  very 
curiously,  without  apparent  reason,  a  recollection 
flashed  on  him. 

"  It  was  you  who  were  the  first  of  all  to  tell  me 
the  story  of  St.  Francis  and  of  that  other  saint  of 
your  own,  the  old  St.  Antony.  It  was  down  by  the 
sea  on  Trawawn.  The  tide  was  racing  in  across  the 
strand,  and  the  sky  was  all  black  out  west." 

"  The  remembrance  of  it  is  on  me,  and  of  the 
other  day,  when  you  had  served  at  Mass,  how  you 
and  I  read  afterwards  in  the  priest's  book." 

"  Ah !  indeed,  I  remember  that  too.  Don't  I 
know  the  words  well  enough  now  ?  *  Si  vis  perfectus 
esse,  vade,  vende  quae  habes  et  veni  sequere  me.' " 


158  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

A  thought  came  on   him   suddenly,  awing  him 
with  its  immensity. 

"Antony?"  he  whispered,  "you  have  done 
this?" 

"  I  have  tried,"  said  the  other,  and  a  smile  of 
great  peace  was  on  his  lips.  "  And,  Larry,  my 
friend,  all  that  they  ever  said  is  true.  There  is 
joy  in  it  beyond  the  glory  of  the  sun  that  sets 
across  the  sea  in  the  summer  time.  The  sweetness 
is  far  more  than  what  the  words  of  my  tongue  can 
tell.  Larry!  oh,  Larry!  I  have  found  Him,  found 
the  beloved  Lord  Jesus,  my  sweet  Saviour,  and  the 
delight  of  being  with  Him  comes  on  me  like  the 
flood  of  the  great  spring  tide  in  September  when 
it  flows  over  all  the  bay  and  kisses  the  grass  above 
the  rocks  and  winds  smooth  among  the  little  islands, 
and  is  warm  and  infinite.  I  came  to  you  to-day — 
only  I  could  not  do  it  because  of  the  man  who  sat 
with  you — to  thank  you  for  the  good  deed  you  have 
done  me.  It  is  through  you,  as  I  think,  that  I  am 
going  forth  to-night  from  the  last  place  I  called 
my  own,  and  giving  up  the  last  pleasure  that  bound 
me  to  the  world — the  faces  of  the  little  children  who 
brought  food  to  me.  Now  there  is  nothing,  no, 
nothing  on  all  the  earth  now  to  keep  me  back  from 
— from  Him. 

He  knelt  and  took  the  priest's  hands  and  pressed 
them  to  his  lips. 

"  So  you  have  found  it,  Antony,"  said   Father 
Larry,  slowly.    "  You  have  found  what  we  dreamed 


MAD  ANTONY  159 

of  when  we  were  boys.  And  I "  He  dragged 

away  his  hands  from  the  other's  grasp  and  covered 
his  face  with  them.  Mad  Antony  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  whispered.  "  Come,  leave 
all  and  you  shall  find  it  too.  Remember,  remember 
you  heard  the  voice  calling  you.  Once  you  under- 
stood what  the  great  call  means.  Yes,  you  under- 
stand it  still.  Come  with  me." 

The  priest  uncovered  his  eyes  and  looked  at  the 
figure  before  him.  The  bare  legs  stretched  out  stark 
below  the  ragged  fringe;  the  face  with  its  matted 
beard  was  emaciated ;  dirt  stuck,  clotted  into  scabs, 
on  the  bawneen. 

"  I  cannot  do  it ! "  he  said  despairingly. 

"  Is  it  too  hard  for  you  ?  Ah !  if  you  only  knew, 
it  is  not  really  hard."  He  turned  and  went  towards 
the  door. 

"  Stay  with  me !  "  cried  the  priest.  "  You  cannot 
go  into  the  world  alone  like  that.  Stay  and  live 
with  me.  You  shall  share  all  I  have.  You  can 
help  me  to  be  good,  to  do  good.  You  cannot  go! 
Oh,  stay  and  I  will  say  Mass  every  day  and  you 
shall  kneel  before  the  altar  and  take  Him  from  my 
hands ! " 

Already  Mad  Antony  was  at  the  door,  but  he 
turned  for  a  moment.  The  firelight  reached  him 
and  played  upon  the  grotesquely  tattered  clothing; 
but  his  face  seemed  to  shine  with  a  brighter  light. 

"  How  can  I  stay?  Have  I  not  heard  the  Voice? 
Must  I  not  go  to  Him?" 


XL— CIVIL  WAR 

SAM  McALISTER  walked  into  my  office  yes- 
terday and  laid  down  a  handful  of  silver  on 
my  desk. 

"  There  you  are,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  the  loan." 

For  the  moment  I  could  not  recollect  having  lent 
Sam  any  money ;  though  I  should  be  glad  to  do  so 
at  any  time  if  I  thought  he  wanted  it.  Sam  is  a 
boy  I  like.  He  is  an  undergraduate  of  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  and  has  the  makings  of  a  man  in 
him,  though  he  is  not  good  at  passing  examinations 
and  has  never  figured  in  an  honours  list.  Some  day, 
when  he  takes  his  degree,  he  is  to  come  into  my 
office  and  be  made  into  a  lawyer.  His  father,  the 
Dean,  is  an  old  friend  of  mine. 

I  looked  at  the  money  lying  before  me,  and  then 
doubtfully  at  Sam. 

"  If  you've  forgotten  all  about  it,"  he  said,  "  it's 
rather  a  pity  I  paid.  But  I  always  was  honest. 

That's  one  of  my  misfortunes.  If  I  wasn't . 

That's  the  fine  you  paid  for  me." 

Then  I  remembered.  Sam  got  into  trouble  with 
the  police  a  few  weeks  ago.  He  and  a  dozen  or  so 
of  his  fellow-students  broke  loose  and  ran  riot 
through  the  streets  of  Dublin.  All  high-spirited 

160 


CIVIL  WAR  '161 

boys  do  this  sort  of  thing  occasionally,  whether  they 
are  junior  army  officers,  lawyers'  clerks,  or  univer- 
sity undergraduates.  Trinity  College  boys,  being 
Irish  and  having  a  large  city  at  their  gates,  riot 
more  picturesquely  than  anyone  else.  Sam  had 
captured  the  flag  which  the  Lord  Mayor  flies  out- 
side his  house,  had  pushed  a  horse  upstairs  into  the 
office  of  a  respectable  stockbroker,  and  had  driven 
a  motor-car,  borrowed  from  an  unwilling  owner, 
down  a  narrow  and  congested  street  at  twenty-five 
or  thirty  miles  an  hour.  He  was  captured  in  the 
end  by  eight  policemen,  and  was  very  nearly  sent 
to  gaol  with  hard  labour.  I  got  him  off  by  paying 
a  fine  of  one  pound,  together  with  £2  4s.  6d.  for 
the  damage  done  by  the  horse  to  the  stockbroker's 
staircase  and  office  furniture.  The  motor-car,  for- 
tunately, had  neither  injured  itself  nor  anyone  else. 

"  I  hope,"  I  said,  pocketing  the  money,  "  that 
this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you,  Sam." 

"  It  won't,"  he  said.  "  At  least,  not  in  the  way 
you  mean.  It'll  encourage  me  to  go  into  another 
rag  the  very  first  time  I  get  the  chance.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  being  arrested  was  the  luckiest  thing 
ever  happened  to  me,  though  I  didn't  think  so  at 
the  time." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  if  you  like  paying  up  these  large 
sums  it's  your  own  affair.  I  should  have  thought 
you  could  have  got  better  value  for  your  money  by 
spending  it  on  something  you  wanted." 

"  Money  isn't  everything  in  the  world,"  said  Sam. 


162  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  having  a  good  time,  a 
rattling  good  time,  even  if  you  don't  make  money 
out  of  it  and  run  a  chance  of  being  arrested.  I  dare- 
say you'd  like  to  hear  what  I've  been  at." 

"  If  you've  committed  any  kind  of  crime,"  I  said, 
"  I'd  rather  you  didn't  tell  me.  It  might  be  awk- 
ward for  me  afterwards  when  you  are  tried." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  exactly  a  crime,"  said  Sam, 
"  anyhow,  it  isn't  anything  wrong,  though,  of  course, 
it  may  be  slightly  illegal.  I'd  rather  like  to  have 
your  opinion  about  that." 

"  Is  it  a  long  story  ?    I'm  rather  busy  to-day." 

"  Not  very  long,"  said  Sam,  "  but  I  daresay  it 
would  sound  better  after  dinner.  What  would  you 
say  now  to  asking  me  to  dine  to-night  at  your  club  ? 
We  could  go  up  to  that  library  place  afterwards. 
There's  never  anybody  there,  and  I  could  tell  you 
the  whole  thing." 

Sam  knows  the  ways  of  my  club  nearly  as  well  as 
I  do  myself.  There  is  never  anyone  in  the  library 
in  the  evening.  I  gave  the  required  invitation. 

We  dined  comfortably,  and  I  got  a  good  cigar 
for  Sam  afterwards.  When  the  waiter  had  left  the 
room  he  plunged  into  his  story. 

"  You  remember  the  day  I  was  hauled  up  before 
that  old  ass  of  a  magistrate.  He  jawed  a  lot  and 
then  fined  me  £3  4s.  6d.,  which  you  paid.  Jolly 
decent  of  you.  I  hadn't  a  shilling  in  the  world, 
being  absolutely  stony  broke  at  the  time;  so  if 


CIVIL  WAR  163 

you  hadn't  paid — and  lots  of  fellows  wouldn't — I 
should  have  had  to  go  to  gaol." 

"  Never  mind  about  that,"  I  said.  "  You've  paid 
me  back." 

"  Still,  I'm  grateful,  especially  as  I  should  have 
missed  the  spree  of  my  life  if  I'd  been  locked  up. 
As  it  was,  thanks  to  you,  I  walked  out  of  the  court 
without  a  stain  on  my  character." 

"  Well  hardly  that.  You  were  found  guilty  of 
riotous  behaviour,  you  know." 

"  Anyhow,  I  walked  out,"  said  Sam,  "  and  that's 
the  main  point." 

It  was,  of  course,  the  point  which  mattered  most ; 
and,  after  all,  the  stain  on  Sam's  character  was 
not  indelible.  Lots  of  young  fellows  behave  riot- 
ously and  turn  out  excellent  men  afterwards.  I 
was  an  undergraduate  myself  once,  and  there  is  a 
story  about  Sam's  father,  now  a  dean,  which  is 
still  told  occasionally.  When  he  was  an  undergrad- 
uate a  cow  was  found  tied  up  in  the  big  examination 
hall.  Sam's  father,  who  was  very  far  from  being 
a  dean  then,  had  borrowed  the  cow  from  a  milkman. 

"There  were  a  lot  of  men  waiting  outside,"  said 
Sam.  "  They  wanted  to  stand  me  a  lunch  in  hon- 
our of  my  escape." 

"  Your  fellow-rioters,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Well,  most  of  them  had  been  in  the  rag,  and,  of 
course,  they  were  sorry  for  me,  being  the  only  one 
actually  caught.  However,  the  lunch  never  came 
off.  There  was  a  queer  old  fellow  standing  on  the 


164  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

steps  of  the  Court  who  got  me  by  the  arm  as  I  came 
out.  Said  he  wanted  to  speak  to  me  on  important 
business,  and  would  I  lunch  with  him.  I  didn't 
know  what  he  could  possibly  have  to  say  to  me, 
for  I  had  never  seen  him  before;  but  he  looked — 
it's  rather  hard  to  describe  how  he  looked.  He 
wasn't  exactly  what  you'd  call  a  gentleman,  in  the 
way  of  clothes,  I  mean ;  but  he  struck  me  as  being 
a  sportsman. 

"Horsey?" 

Not  the  least.  More  like  one's  idea  of  some 
kind  of  modern  pirate,  though  not  exactly.  He 
talked  like  an  American.  I  went  with  him,  of 
course." 

"  Of  course,"  I  said,  "  anyone  with  an  adventur- 
ous spirit  would  prefer  lunching  with  an  unknown 
American  buccaneer  to  sharing  a  commonplace 
feast  with  a  mob  of  boys.  Did  you  happen  to  hear 
his  name?" 

"  He  said  it  was  Hazlewood,  but " 

"  But  it  may  not  have  been  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  other  fellows  called  him  Cassidy 
later  on." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  there  were  other  fellows?  " 

"  There  were  afterwards,"  said  Sam,  "  not  at  first. 
He  and  I  lunched  alone.  He  did  me  well.  A  bot- 
tle of  champagne  for  the  two  of  us  and  offered  me 
a  second  bottle.  I  refused  that." 

"He  came  to  business  after  the  champagne,  I 
suppose  ? " 


CIVIL  WAR  165 

"  He  more  or  less  talked  business  the  whole  time, 
though  at  first  I  didn't  know  quite  what  he  was 
at.  He  gassed  a  lot  about  my  having  knocked 
down  those  two  policemen.  You  remember  that  I 
knocked  down  two,  don't  you?  I  would  have  got 
a  third  only  that  they  collared  me  from  behind. 
Well,  Hazlewood,  or  Cassidy,  or  whatever  his  name 
was,  had  seen  the  scrap,  and  seemed  to  think  no 
end  of  a  lot  of  me  for  the  fight  I  put  up." 

"  The  magistrate  took  a  serious  view  of  it,  too," 
I  said. 

"There  wasn't  much  in  it,"  said  Sam  modestly. 
"  As  I  told  Hazlewood,  any  fool  can  knock  down  a 
policeman.  They're  so  darned  fat.  He  asked  me 
if  I  liked  fighting  policemen.  I  said  I  did." 

"  Of  course." 

Sam  caught  some  note  of  sarcasm  in  my  voice. 
He  felt  it  necessary  to  modify  his  statement. 

"  Well,  not  policemen  in  particular.  I  haven't  a 
special  down  on  policemen.  I  like  a  scrap  with 
anyone.  Then  he  said — Hazlewood,  that  is — that 
he  admired  the  way  I  drove  that  car  down  Grafton 
Street.  He  said  he  liked  a  man  who  wasn't  afraid 
to  take  risks;  which  was  rot.  There  wasn't  any 
real  risk." 

"  The  police  swore  that  you  went  at  thirty  miles 
an  hour,"  I  said.  "  And  that  street  is  simply 
crowded  in  the  middle  of  the  day." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  was  doing  anything  like  thirty 
miles  an  hour,"  said  Sam.  "  I  should  say  twenty- 


166  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

seven  at  the  outside.  And  there  was  no  risk  because 
everybody  cleared  out  of  my  way.  I  had  the  street 
practically  to  myself.  It  was  rather  fun  seeing  all 
the  other  cars  and  carts  and  things  piled  up  upon 
the  footpaths  at  either  side  and  the  people  bolting 
into  the  shops  like  rabbits.  But  there  wasn't  any 
risk.  However,  old  Hazlewood  evidently  thought 
there  was,  and  seemed  frightfully  pleased  about  it. 
He  said  he  had  a  car  of  his  own,  a  sixty  h.p.  Daim- 
ler, and  that  he'd  like  to  see  me  drive  it.  I  said  I'd 
take  him  for  a  spin  any  time  he  liked.  I  gave  him 
a  hint  that  we  might  start  immediately  after  lunch 
and  run  up  to  Belfast  in  time  for  dinner.  With  a 
car  like  that  I  could  have  done  it  easy.  However, 
he  wasn't  on." 

"  Do  you  think  he  really  had  the  car?" 

"  Oh,  he  had  her  all  right.  I  drove  her  after- 
wards. Great  Scott,  such  a  drive!  The  next  thing 
he  said  was  that  he  believed  I  was  a  pretty  good 
man  in  a  boat.  I  said  I  knew  something  about 
boats,  though  not  much." 

Modesty  is  one  of  Sam's  virtues.  He  is,  I  believe, 
an  excellent  hand  in  a  small  yacht,  and  does  a  good 
deal  of  racing. 

"  I  asked  him  what  put  it  into  his  head  that  I 
could  sail  a  boat,  and  he  said  O'Meara  told  him. 
O'Meara  is  a  man  I  sail  with  occasionally,  and  I 
thought  it  nice  of  him  to  mention  my  name  to  this 
old  boy.  I  can  hoist  a  spinaker  all  right  and  shift 
a  jib,  but  I'm  no  good  at  navigation.  Always  did 


CIVIL  WAR  167 

hate  sums  and  always  will.  I  told  him  that,  and 
he  said  he  could  do  the  navigation  himself.  All  he 
wanted  was  a  good  amateur  crew  for  a  thirty-ton 
yawl  with  a  motor  auxiliary.  He  had  four  men,  and 
he  asked  me  to  make  a  fifth.  I  said  I'd  go  like  a 
shot.  Strictly  speaking,  I  ought  to  have  been 
attending  lectures;  but  what  good  are  lectures?" 

"  Very  little,"  I  said.    "  In  fact,  hardly  any." 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  lose  a  cruise  for  the  sake  of 
any  amount  of  lectures,"  said  Sam,  "  particularly 
with  the  chance  of  a  tour  on  that  sixty  h.p.  car 
thrown  in." 

Sam  paused  at  this  point.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
he  wanted  encouragement. 

"  You'd  have  been  a  fool  if  you  had,"  I  said. 

"Up  to  that  time,"  said  Sam  thoughtfully,  "I 
hadn't  tumbled  to  what  he  was  at.  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honour  I  hadn't  the  dimmest  idea  that  he 
was  after  anything  in  particular.  I  thought  he  was 
simply  a  good  old  sport  with  lots  of  money,  which 
he  knew  how  to  spend  in  sensible  ways." 

"  The  criminal  part  of  the  business  was  mentioned 
later  on,  I  suppose?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  there's  anything  criminal 
about  it,"  said  Sam.  "  I'm  jolly  well  sure  it  wasn't 
wrong,  under  the  circumstances.  But  it  may  have 
been  criminal.  That's  just  what  I  want  you  to 
tell  me." 

"  I'll  give  you  my  opinion,"  I  said,  "  when  I  hear 
what  it  was." 


168  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  Gun-running,"  said  Sam. 

Gun-running  has  for  some  time  been  a  popular 
sport  in  Ireland,  and  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  say 
whether  it  is  against  the  law  or  not.  The  Govern- 
ment goes  in  for  trying  to  stop  it,  which  looks  as  if 
a  gun-runner  might  be  prosecuted  when  caught. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Government  never  prose- 
cutes gun-runners,  even  those  who  openly  boast  of 
their  exploits,  and  that  looks  as  if  it  were  quite  a 
legal  amusement.  I  promised  Sam  that  I  would 
consider  the  point,  and  I  asked  him  to  tell  me 
exactly  what  he  did. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  when  I  heard  it  was  gun- 
running  I  simply  jumped  at  the  chance.  Any  fellow 
would.  I  said  I'd  start  right  away,  if  he  liked.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  we  didn't  start  for  nearly  a  fort- 
night. The  boat  turned  out  to  be  the  Pegeen.  You 
know  the  Pegeen,  don't  you  ?  " 

I  did  not.  I  am  not  a  sailor,  and  except  that  I 
cannot  help  seeing  paragraphs  about  Shamrock  IV. 
in  the  daily  papers  I  do  not  think  I  know  the  name 
of  a  single  yacht. 

"  Well,"  said  Sam,  "  she's  O'Meara's  boat.  I've 
sailed  in  her  sometimes  in  cruiser  races.  She's  slow 
and  never  does  any  good,  but  she's  a  fine  sea  boat. 
My  idea  was  that  Hazlewood  had  hired  her,  and  I 
didn't  find  out  till  after  we  had  started  that  O'Meara 
was  on  board.  That  surprised  me  a  bit,  for  O'Meara 
goes  in  for  being  rather  an  extreme  kind  of  Nation- 
alist— not  the  sort  of  fellow  you'd  expect  to  be 


CIVIL  WAR  169 

running  guns  for  Carson  and  the  Ulster  Volunteers. 
However,  I  was  jolly  glad  to  see  him.  He  crawled 
out  of  the  cabin  when  we  were  a  couple  of  miles 
out  of  the  harbour,  and  by  that  time  I'd  have  been 
glad  to  see  anyone  who  knew  one  end  of  the  boat 
from  the  other.  Old  Hazlewood  was  all  right;  but 
the  other  three  men  were  simply  rotters,  the  sort  of 
fellows  who'd  be  just  as  likely  as  not  to  take  a  pull 
on  a  topsail  halyard  when  told  to  slack  away  the 
lee  runner.  I  was  just  making  up  my  mind  to  work 
the  boat  single-handed  when  O'Meara  turned  up. 
There  was  a  middling  fresh  breeze  from  the  west, 
and  we  were  going  south  on  a  reach.  I  didn't  get 
much  chance  of  a  talk  with  O'Meara  because  he 
was  in  one  watch  and  I  in  the  other — had  to  be, 
of  course,  on  account  of  being  the  only  two  who 
knew  anything  about  working  the  boat.  I  did 
notice,  though,  that  when  he  spoke  to  Hazlewood 
he  called  him  Cassidy.  However,  that  was  no  busi- 
ness of  mine.  We  sailed  pretty  nearly  due  south 
that  day  and  the  next,  and  the  next  after  that.  Then 
we  hove  to." 

"Where?"  I  asked. 

"  Ask  me  another,"  said  Sam.  "  I  told  you  I 
couldn't  navigate.  I  hadn't  an  idea  within  a  hundred 
miles  where  we  were.  What's  more,  I  didn't  care. 
I  was  having  a  splendid  time,  and  had  succeeded  in 
knocking  some  sort  of  sense  into  the  other  fellow 
in  my  watch.  Hazlewood  steered,  and  barring  that 
he  was  seasick  for  eight  hours,  my  man  turned  out 


170  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

to  be  a  decent  sort,  and  fairly  intelligent.  He  said 
his  name  was  Temple,  but  Hazlewood  called  him 
O'Reilly  as  often  as  not." 

"  You  seem  to  have  gone  in  for  a  nice  variety  of 
names,"  I  said.  "  What  did  you  call  yourself? " 

"  I  stuck  to  my  own  name,  of  course.  I  wasn't 
doing  anything  to  be  ashamed  of.  If  we'd  been 
caught  and  the  thing  had  turned  out  to  be  a  crime — 
I  don't  know  whether  it  was  or  not,  but  if  it  was, 
I  suppose " 

"  I  suppose  I  should  have  paid  your  fine,"  I  said. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Sam.  "  Thanks  awfully.  I  rather 
expected  you  would  whenever  I  thought  about  that 
part  of  it,  but  I  very  seldom  did." 

"  What  happened  when  you  lay  to  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  first.  We  bumped  about  a  bit  for 
five  or  six  hours  and  Temple  got  frightfully  sick 
again.  I  never  saw  a  man  sicker.  Hazlewood  kept 
on  muddling  about  with  charts,  and  doing  sums  on 
sheets  of  paper,  and  consulting  with  O'Meara.  I 
suppose  they  wanted  to  make  sure  that  they'd  got 
to  the  right  place.  At  last,  just  about  sunset,  a 
small  steamer  turned  up.  She  hung  about  all  night, 
and  next  day  we  started  early,  about  four  o'clock, 
and  got  the  guns  out  of  her,  or  some  of  them.  We 
couldn't  take  the  whole  cargo,  of  course,  in  a  30-ton 
yacht.  I  don't  know  how  many  more  guns  she  had. 
Perhaps  she  hadn't  any  more.  Only  our  little  lot. 
Anyhow,  I  was  jolly  glad  when  the  job  was  over. 
There  was  a  bit  of  a  roll — nothing  much,  you  know, 


CIVIL  WAR  171 

but  quite  enough  to  make  it  pretty  awkward. 
Temple  got  over  his  seasickness,  which  was  a  com- 
fort. I  suppose  the  excitement  cured  him.  The 
way  we  worked  was  this — but  I  daresay  you 
wouldn't  understand,  even  if  I  told  you." 

"  Is  it  very  technical  ?  I  mean,  must  you  use 
many  sea  words  ?  " 

"  Must,"  said  Sam.    "  We  were  at  sea,  you  know." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  perhaps  you'd  better  leave  that 
part  out.  Tell  me  what  you  did  with  the  guns 
when  you'd  got  them." 

"  Right.  It  was  there  the  fun  really  came  in. 
Not  that  I'm  complaining  about  the  other  part.  It 
was  sport  all  right,  but  the  funny  part,  the  part 
you'll  like,  came  later.  What  about  another  cigar?  " 

I  rang  the  bell,  and  got  two  more  cigars  for  Sam. 

"  We  had  rather  a  tiresome  passage  home,"  he 
said.  "  It  kept  on  falling  calm,  and  O'Meara's  motor 
isn't  very  powerful.  It  took  us  a  clear  week  to 
work  our  way  up  to  the  County  Down  coast.  It 
was  there  we  landed,  in  a  poky  little  harbour.  We 
went  in  at  night,  and  had  to  wait  for  a  full  tide  to 
get  in  at  all.  We  got  the  sails  of  the  boat  outside, 
and  just  strolled  in,  so  to  speak,  with  the  wretched 
little  engine  doing  about  half  it  could.  Hazlewood 
told  me  that  he  expected  four  motor-cars  to  meet 
us,  and  that  I  was  to  take  one  of  them,  and  drive 
like  hell  into  County  Armagh.  There  I  was  to  call 
at  a  house  belonging  to  O'Meara,  and  hand  over 
my  share  of  the  guns.  He  said  he  hoped  I  knew 


172  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

my  way  about  those  parts,  because  it  would  be 
awkward  for  me  trying  to  work  with  road  maps 
when  I  ought  to  drive  fast.  I  said  I  knew  that 
country  like  the  palm  of  my  hand.  The  governor's 
parish  is  up  there,  you  know." 

Sam  certainly  ought  to  know  County  Down.  He 
was  brought  up  there,  and  must  have  walked, 
cycled,  and  driven  over  most  of  the  roads. 

"  The  only  thing  I  didn't  know,"  said  Sam,  "  was 
O'Meara's  house.  I'd  never  heard  of  his  having  a 
house  in  that  part  of  the  country.  However,  he 
said  he'd  only  taken  it  lately,  and  that  when  I  got 
over  the  border  into  Armagh  there'd  be  a  man 
waiting  to  show  me  where  to  go.  He  told  me  the 
road  I  was  to  take,  and  I  knew  every  turn  of  the 
way,  so  I  felt  pretty  sure  of  getting  there.  It  was 
about  two  in  the  morning  when  we  got  alongside 
the  pier.  The  four  motors  were  there  all  right,  but 
there  wasn't  a  soul  about  except  the  men  in  charge 
of  them.  We  got  out  the  guns.  They  were  done 
up  in  small  bundles  and  the  cartridges  in  handy 
little  cases ;  but  it  took  us  till  half-past  four  o'clock 
to  get  them  ashore.  By  that  time  there  were  a 
few  people  knocking  about;  but  they  didn't  seem 
to  want  to  interfere  with  us.  In  fact,  some  of  them 
came  and  helped  us  to  pack  the  stuff  into  the  cars. 
They  were  perfectly  friendly." 

"  That  doesn't  surprise  me  in  the  least,"  I  said. 
"  The  people  up  there  are  nearly  all  Protestants. 
Most  of  them  were  probably  Volunteers  themselves. 


CIVIL  WAR  173 

I  daresay  it  wasn't  the  first  cargo  they'd  helped  to 
land." 

"  It  was  the  first  cargo  they  ever  helped  to  land 
for  the  National  Volunteers,"  said  Sam  with  a  grin. 

"  The  National  Volunteers !  " 

I  admit  that  Sam  startled  me.  I  do  not  suppose 
that  he  has  any  political  convictions.  At  the  age  of 
twenty  a  man  has  a  few  prejudices  but  no  con- 
victions. If  he  is  a  young  fellow  who  goes  in  for 
being  intellectual  they  are  prejudices  against  the 
party  his  father  belongs  to.  If — and  this  is  Sam's 
case — he  is  a  healthy-minded  young  man,  who 
enjoys  sport,  he  takes  over  his  father's  opinions  as 
they  stand,  and  regards  everybody  who  does  not 
accept  them  as  an  irredeemable  blackguard.  The 
Dean  is  a  very  strong  loyalist.  He  is  the  chaplain 
of  an  Orange  Lodge,  and  has  told  me  more  than 
once  that  he  hopes  to  march  to  battle  at  the  head 
of  his  regiment  of  Volunteers. 

"  Smuggling  arms  for  the  Nationalists ! "  I  said. 

"  That's  what  I  did,"  said  Sam,  grinning  broadly. 
"  But  I  thought  all  the  time  that  I  was  working  for 
the  other  side.  I  didn't  know  the  Nationalists  went 
in  for  guns;  thought  they  only  talked.  In  fact, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  forgot  all  about  them.  Other- 
wise I  wouldn't  have  done  it.  At  least  I  mightn't. 
But  I  had  a  great  time." 

"  Of  course,"  I  said,  "  I  don't  mind.  So  far  as  I 
am  concerned  personally  I'd  rather  neither  side  had 


174  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

any  guns.  But  if  your  father  finds  out  Sam, 
there'll  be  a  frightful  row.  He'll  disown  you." 

"  The  governor  knows  all  about  it,"  said  Sam, 
"  and  he  doesn't  mind  one  bit.  Just  wait  till  you 
hear  the  end  of  the  story.  You'll  be  as  surprised  as 
I  was." 

"  I  certainly  shall,"  I  said,  "  if  the  story  ends  in 
your  father's  approving  of  your  smuggling  guns  for 
rebels.  He'd  call  them  rebels,  you  know." 

"  Oh,"  said  Sam,  "  as  far  as  rebellion  goes  I  don't 
see  that  there's  much  to  choose  between  them. 
However,  that  doesn't  matter.  What  happened  was 
this.  I  got  off  with  my  load  about  five  o'clock,  and 
I  had  a  gorgeous  spin.  There  wasn't  a  cart  or  a 
thing  on  the  roads,  and  I  just  let  the  car  rip.  I 
touched  sixty  miles  an  hour,  and  hardly  ever 
dropped  below  forty.  Best  run  I  ever  had.  Almost 
the  only  thing  I  passed  was  a  motor  lorry,  going 
the  same  way  I  was.  I  didn't  think  anything  of  it 
at  the  time,  but  it  turned  out  to  be  important  after- 
wards. It  was  about  seven  o'clock  when  I  got  out 
of  County  Down  into  Armagh.  I  began  looking  out 
for  the  fellow  who  was  to  meet  me.  It  wasn't  long 
before  I  spotted  him,  standing  at  a  corner,  trying  to 
look  as  if  he  were  a  military  sentry.  You  know 
the  sort  of  thing  I  mean.  Bandolier,  belt,  and  fright- 
fully stiff  about  the  back.  He  held  up  his  hand  and 
I  stopped.  'A  loyal  man/  he  said.  Well,  I  was, 
so  far  as  I  knew  at  that  time,  so  I  said,  '  You  bet.' 
'  That's  not  right/  said  he.  '  Give  the  countersign.' 


CIVIL  WAR  175 

I  hadn't  heard  anything  about  a  countersign,  so  I 
told  him  not  to  be  a  fool,  and  that  I'd  break  his  head 
if  he  said  I  wasn't  a  loyal  man.  That  seemed  to 
puzzle  him  a  bit.  He  got  out  a  notebook  and  read 
a  page  or  two,  looking  at  me  and  the  car  every  now 
and  then  as  if  he  wasn't  quite  satisfied.  I  felt  pretty 
sure,  of  course,  that  he  was  the  man  I  wanted.  He 
couldn't  very  well  be  anyone  else.  So  by  way  of 
cutting  the  business  short  I  told  him  I  was  loaded 
up  with  guns  and  cartridges,  and  that  I  wished  he'd 
hop  in  and  show  me  where  to  go.  *  That's  all  very 
fine/  he  said,  '  but  you  oughtn't  to  be  in  a  car  like 
that.'  I  told  him  there  was  no  use  arguing  about 
the  car.  I  wasn't  going  back  to  change  it  to  please 
him.  He  asked  me  who  I  was,  and  I  told  him, 
mentioning  that  I  was  the  governor's  son.  I  thought 
that  might  help  him  to  make  up  his  mind,  and  it 
did.  The  governor  is  middling  well  known  up  in 
those  parts,  and  the  mention  of  his  name  was 
enough.  The  fellow  climbed  in  beside  me.  We 
hadn't  very  far  to  go,  as  it  turned  out,  and  in  the 
inside  of  twenty  minutes  I  was  driving  up  the 
avenue  of  a  big  house.  The  size  of  it  rather  sur- 
prised me,  for  I  didn't  think  O'Meara  was  well 
enough  off  to  keep  up  a  place  of  the  kind.  How- 
ever, I  was  evidently  expected,  for  I  was  shown 
into  the  dining-room  by  a  footman.  There  were 
three  men  at  breakfast,  my  old  dad,  Dopping — you 
know  Dopping,  don't  you?" 

Dopping  is  a  retired  cavalry  colonel.    I  do  busi- 


176  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

ness  for  him  and  know  him  pretty  well.  He  is 
just  the  sort  of  man  who  would  be  in  the  thick  of 
any  gun-running  that  was  going  on. 

"  There  was  another  man,"  said  Sam,  "  whom  I 
didn't  know  and  wasn't  introduced  to.  The  fact  is 
there  wasn't  much  time  for  politeness.  My  dad 
looked  as  if  he'd  been  shot  when  he  saw  me,  and  old 
Dopping  bristled  all  over  like  an  Irish  terrier  at  the 
beginning  of  a  fight,  and  asked  me  who  the  devil  I 
was  and  what  I  was  doing  there.  Of  course,  he 
jolly  well  knew  who  I  was,  and  I  thought  he  must 
know  what  brought  me  there,  so  I  just  winked  by 
way  of  letting  him  understand  that  I  was  in  the 
game.  He  got  so  red  in  the  face  that  I  thought  he'd 
burst.  Then  the  other  man  chipped  in  and  asked 
me  what  I'd  got  in  the  car.  I  told  him.  The  three 
of  them  whispered  together  for  a  bit,  and  I  sug- 
gested that  if  they  didn't  believe  me  they'd  better 
go  and  see.  The  car  was  outside  the  door,  and  their 
own  man  was  sitting  on  the  guns.  Dopping  went, 
and  I  suppose  he  told  the  other  two  that  the  guns 
were  there  all  right.  Dad  asked  me  where  I  got 
them,  and  I  told  him,  mentioning  Hazlewood's 
name  and  the  name  of  the  yacht.  I  was  a  bit 
puzzled,  but  I  still  thought  everything  was  all  right, 
and  that  there'd  be  no  harm  in  mentioning  names. 
I  very  soon  saw  that  there  was  some  sort  of  mistake 
somewhere.  The  governor  and  old  Dopping  and 
the  other  man,  who  seemed  to  be  the  coolest  of  the 
three,  went  over  to  the  window  and  looked  at  the 


CIVIL  WAR  177 

car.  Then  they  started  whispering  again,  and  I 
couldn't  hear  a  word  they  said.  Didn't  want  to.  I 
was  as  hungry  as  a  wolf,  and  there  was  a  jolly  good 
breakfast  on  the  table.  I  sat  down  and  gorged.  I 
had  just  started  my  third  egg  when  the  door  opened, 
and  a  rather  nice-looking  young  fellow  walked  in. 
The  footman  came  behind  him,  looking  as  white  as 
a  sheet,  and  began  some  sort  of  apology  for  letting 
the  stranger  in.  Old  Dopping,  who  was  still  in  a 
pretty  bad  temper,  told  the  footman  to  go.  Then 
the  new  man  introduced  himself.  He  said  he  was 
Colonel  O'Connell,  of  the  first  Armagh  Regiment  of 
National  Volunteers.  I  expected  to  see  old  Dop- 
ping kill  him  at  sight.  Dopping  is  a  tremendous 
loyalist,  and  the  other  fellow — well — phew !  " 

Sam  whistled.  Words  failed  him,  I  suppose,  when 
it  came  to  expressing  the  disloyalty  of  a  colonel  of 
National  Volunteers. 

"  Instead  of  that,"  said  Sam,  "  Dopping  stood  up 
straight,  and  saluted  O'Connell.  O'Connell  stiffened 
his  back,  and  saluted  Dopping.  The  third  man, 
the  one  I  didn't  know,  stood  up,  too,  and  saluted. 
O'Connell  saluted  him.  Then  the  governor  bowed 
quite  civilly,  and  O'Connell  saluted  him.  I  can  tell 
you  it  was  a  pretty  scene.  '  I  beg  to  inform  you, 
gentlemen/  said  O'Connell,  'that  a  consignment 
of  rifles  and  ammunition,  apparently  intended  for 
your  force,  has  arrived  at  our  headquarters  in  a 
motor  lorry.'  Nothing  could  have  been  civiller  than 
the  way  he  spoke.  But  Dopping  was  not  to  be  beat. 


178  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

He's  a  bristly  old  bear  at  times,  but  he  always  was 
a  gentleman.  '  Owing  to  a  mistake,'  he  said,  '  some 
arms,  evidently  belonging  to  you,  are  now  in  a  car 
at  our  door.'  The  governor  and  the  other  man  sat 
down  and  laughed  till  they  were  purple,  but  neither 
O'Connell  nor  old  Dopping  so  much  as  smiled.  It 
was  then — and  I  give  you  my  word  not  till  then — 
that  I  tumbled  to  the  idea  that  I'd  been  running 
guns  for  the  other  side.  I  expected  that  there'd  be 
a  furious  row  the  minute  the  governor  stopped 
laughing.  But  there  wasn't.  In  fact,  no  one  took 
any  notice  of  me.  There  was  a  long  consultation, 
and  in  the  end  they  settled  that  it  might  be  risky  to 
start  moving  the  guns  about  again,  and  that  each 
party  had  better  stick  to  what  it  had  got.  Our  fel- 
lows— I  call  them  our  fellows,  though,  of  course,  I 
was  really  acting  for  the  others — our  fellows  got 
rather  the  better  of  the  exchange  in  the  way  of 
ammunition.  But  O'Connell  scooped  in  a  lot  of 
extra  rifles.  When  they  had  that  settled  they  all 
saluted  again,  and  the  governor  said  something 
about  hoping  to  meet  O'Connell  at  Philippi.  I  don't 
know  what  he  meant  by  that,  but  O'Connell  seemed 
tremendously  pleased.  Where  do  you  suppose 
Philippi  is?" 

"  Philippi,"  I  said,  "  is  where  somebody — Julius 

Caesar,  I  think,  but  it  doesn't  matter .     What 

your  father  meant  was  that  he  hoped  to  have  a 
chance  of  fighting  it  out  with  O'Connell  some  day. 


CIVIL  WAR  179 

Not  a  duel,  you  know,  but  a  proper  battle.  The 
Ulster  Volunteers  against  the  other  lot." 

"  We  shall  have  to  wipe  out  the  police  first,"  said 
Sam,  "  to  prevent  their  interfering.  I  hope  I  shall 
be  there  then.  I  want  to  get  my  own  back  out  of 
those  fellows  who  collared  me  from  behind  the  day 
of  the  last  rag.  But,  I  say,  what  about  the  soldiers 
— the  regular  soldiers,  I  mean?  Which  side  will 
they  be  on?" 

"  That,"  I  said,  "  is  the  one  uncertain  factor  in 
the  problem.  Nobody  knows." 

"  The  best  plan,"  said  Sam,  "  would  be  to  take 
them  away  altogether,  and  leave  us  to  settle  the 
matter  ourselves.  We'd  do  it  all  right,  judging  by 
the  way  old  Dopping  and  O'Connell  behaved  to 
each  other." 

Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings.  I 
should  never  have  suspected  Sam  of  profound 
political  wisdom.  But  it  is  quite  possible  that  his 
suggestion  would  meet  the  case  better  than  any 
other. 


XII.— THE  DESPATCH  RIDER 

THE  motor-car  stood  palpitating  outside  the 
doors  of  the  Town  Hall  at  Ballygore.  Its 
powerful  headlights  glared  at  the  crowd  which 
blocked  the  road  in  front  of  it.  Beyond  the  limit 
of  their  range,  on  each  side  of  the  car  and  behind  it, 
the  crowd  was  denser  still.  Lawrence  O'Kevin, 
bareheaded,  descended  the  steps  of  the  hall  accom- 
panied by  three  gentlemen  also  bareheaded.  The 
crowd  cheered.  O'Kevin  waved  his  hand,  put  on  his 
hat,  took  it  off  again  and  waved  it.  Then  he  stepped 
into  the  car.  The  crowd  cheered  more  enthusias- 
tically. The  driver,  sitting  at  the  steering  wheel  of 
the  car,  blew  several  warning  blasts  on  his  horn. 
The  crowd,  refusing  to  be  warned,  continued  to 
cheer.  O'Kevin  stood  up. 

"  God  save  Ireland,"  he  said. 

"  And  damn  the  Orangemen,"  said  some  one. 

The  crowd  cheered  both  sentiments  with  vigour. 
The  driver,  who  no  doubt  wanted  to  get  home  to 
bed,  threw  a  note  of  impatient  anger  into  the  hoot- 
ing of  his  horn.  He  started  the  car  and  O'Kevin 
sat  down  abruptly.  That  part  of  the  crowd  which 
was  in  front  of  the  car  scattered  right  and  left.  The 
cheering  was  continued  by  those  whose  limbs  were 
safe.  O'Kevin  leaned  forward  and  waved  his  hat. 

180 


THE  DESPATCH  RIDER  181 

In  a  few  minutes  the  car  was  clear  of  the  crowd 
and  clear  of  the  streets  of  the  town.  It  sped  at  a 
high  pace  along  the  empty  country  roads.  O'Kevin 
leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"  I  wish,"  he  murmured,  "  that  it  were  not  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  damn  the  Orangemen." 

Lawrence  O'Kevin  was  a  Member  of  Parliament, 
and  one  of  the  leading  figures  in  the  Irish  Nation- 
alist Party.  All  successful  politicians  are  politicians 
by  nature.  They  are  born  with  a  taste  for  making 
speeches  and  it  is  in  them  to  enjoy  intrigue.  But 
most  of  them  belong  to  one  party  or  the  other  by 
mere  accident.  They  would  be  just  as  happy,  just 
as  effective,  if  the  dice  of  circumstance  had  fallen 
the  other  way  up  and  they  had  found  themselves 
members  of  the  opposite  party.  Lawrence  O'Kevin 
was  an  exception  to  this  rule.  He  was  a  Nationalist, 
just  as  he  was  a  politician,  by  nature.  It  was 
impossible  to  imagine  him  a  Unionist. 

Yet  even  Lawrence  O'Kevin  was  thankful  when 
his  speech  was  over.  Ballygore  is  one  of  those 
danger  spots  on  the  borders  of  Protestant  Ulster 
where  the  numbers  of  the  two  parties  are  very 
nearly  equal.  The  Nationalists  had  for  nearly  a 
year  watched  their  opponents  drilling  and  arming. 
They  were  quite  of  opinion  that  it  was  time  for  them 
to  do  the  same.  When  O'Kevin,  the  trusted  lieuten- 
ant of  their  trusted  leader,  advised  them  to  do  the 
very  thing  they  wanted  to  do  their  enthusiasm  was 
unbounded.  Never  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life 


182  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

had  O'Kevin  held  a  more  successful  meeting.  Yet, 
when  it  was  all  over  and  the  car  in  which  he  sat  was 
racing  through  the  cool  night  air,  he  leaned  back 
and  thanked  Heaven. 

The  fact  is  that  it  is  not  only  the  round  men  in 
the  square  holes  who  are  discontented  with  their 
lot.  The  fortunate  few  who,  being  round,  get  into 
round  holes  are  ultimately  worried  by  the  want  of 
angles  in  their  lives.  A  surgeon  may  have,  ought 
to  have,  a  natural  love  for  cutting  out  appendices; 
but  if  he  is  kept  at  it  by  fate,  obliged  to  cut  them 
out  at  the  rate  of  a  hundred  a  year  for  a  quarter  of 
a  century,  he  begins  to  wish  that  he  were  something 
else,  a  market  gardener  or  an  ambassador,  anything 
except  a  surgeon.  O'Kevin  had  made,  on  an 
average,  two  hundred  speeches  a  year  for  thirty 
years,  all  of  them  on  Home  Rule,  and  he  had  reached 
the  point  of  regarding  each  one  as  a  milestone 
passed  on  a  somewhat  weary  road.  He  might — he 
was  fifty-five  years  of  age — have  to  make  as  many 
as  three  thousand  more.  But  he  was  a  philosopher. 
He  knew  that  each  time  he  spoke  reduced  the 
number  of  speeches  before  him  by  one,  and  that  in 
the  end  he  would  certainly  reach  his  last  speech. 

O'Kevin  had  a  long  drive  before  him  and  plenty 
of  time  for  meditation.  He  allowed  his  mind  to 
range  over  the  chances  which  life  offers  to  a  man 
of  moderate  means  and  some  intelligence,  if  he  does 
not  happen  to  be  born  an  orator  and  forced  by  fate 
to  spend  his  time  talking.  He  dwelt  for  some  time 


THE  DESPATCH  RIDER  183 

on  the  joys  of  money-making.  Then  he  thought  of 
the  people  who  go  adventuring,  who  discover  bits 
of  Central  Africa  or  rivers  in  Brazil.  Finally,  for  he 
was  a  man  of  kindly  heart,  he  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  life  of  a  philanthropist  must  be  the 
happiest  of  all.  He  did  not,  indeed,  wish  to  sit  on 
any  of  the  committees  which  devise  means  of 
annoying  harmless  people  in  order  to  improve  their 
habits  or  their  health.  His  dream  was  of  doing 
kindly  acts  unexpectedly,  to  men,  women,  and 
especially  children,  who  might  be  in  need  of  a  bene- 
factor. He  sighed.  The  dream  was  a  dream  and 
no  more.  A  man  needs  ample  leisure  to  be  a  philan- 
thropist of  that  sort.  Perhaps  only  the  country 
parsons  and  the  smaller  landed  gentry  have  leisure 
enough.  And  indeed  that  kind  of  well-doing  is  out 
of  fashion  everywhere. 

O'Kevin  was  roused  from  his  dream  by  a  series  of 
short,  furious  hoots  from  the  motor-horn.  The 
car  swerved  sharply  and  went  sideways  into  a  ditch. 
O'Kevin  was  jerked  from  his  seat  and  found  himself 
sitting,  unhurt,  but  a  good  deal  crumpled  up,  on  the 
floor  of  the  tonneau.  He  heard  the  driver  swearing 

fluently.  A  " motor-bike  " — he  picked  out  the 

fact  from  a  bewildering  shower  of  profanity — was 
lying,  without  a  sign  of  a  light  on  it,  in  the  middle 
of  the  road. 

The  next  thing  O'Kevin  heard  was  the  voice  of  a 
girl. 


184  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  It's  all  my  fault,"  she  said ;  "  I  know  it's  all  my 
fault,  and  now  somebody  is  killed." 

Then  she  sobbed.  O'Kevin  could  hear  the  sobs 
distinctly.  So,  apparently,  could  the  driver,  for  he 
stopped  swearing.  O'Kevin  climbed  out  of  the  car. 
He  found  a  girl  sitting  beside  the  ruin  of  a  motor- 
bicycle  weeping  bitterly.  For  a  moment  he  was 
doubtful  whether  it  was  a  girl.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  boy's  Norfolk  jacket  and  a  pair  of  tweed  knick- 
erbockers much  too  big  for  her.  The  driver,  who 
had  turned  the  light  of  one  of  the  lamps  on  her 
figure,  was  deceived.  He  began  to  swear  again. 
But  O'Kevin  caught  sight  of  a  long  mane  of  yellow 
hair,  and  felt  sure  that  his  first  guess  was  the  right 
one.  He  told  the  driver  to  stop  swearing  at  once. 
He  went  over  to  the  girl  and  picked  her  up. 

"Are  you  hurt? "  he  asked. 

She  stopped  sobbing  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  a  bit;  but  the  machine 
is  in  flitters.  You  know  what  I  mean  by  flitters, 
don't  you?  Little  bits.  And  I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 

"  Let  me  take  you  home,"  said  O'Kevin.  "  My 
car's  all  right.  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  I  can't  go  home,"  said  the  girl.  "  Tom  would 
kill  me  if  I  did.  Besides — well,  I  can't,  yet." 

O'Kevin  thought  over  the  position  for  a  minute 
or  two. 

"  Is  it  Tom's  bicycle?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  and  Tom's  my  brother." 


THE  DESPATCH  RIDER  185 

O'Kevin  felt  that  he  understood  the  matter  thor- 
oughly. The  opportunity  he  had  dreamed  of,  the 
opportunity  for  doing  an  unexpected,  irregular  act 
of  kindness,  had  come  to  him  without  his  spending 
any  time  in  seeking  it.  He  was  fifty-five  years  of 
age.  The  girl  beside  him  was  plainly  little  more 
than  a  child.  He  patted  her  head. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  Tom  shall 
have  a  new  bicycle.  I'll  give  him  one.  But  I  hope 
that  you'll  be  more  careful  in  future."  He  was 
beginning  to  realise  the  full  pleasure  of  benevolent 
fatherliness.  "  You  mustn't  take  Tom's  bicycle 
again  without  asking  leave." 

"  Good  gracious !  "  said  the  girl.  "  He  sent  me  on 
the  bicycle  himself,  and  he  won't  mind  it's  being 
smashed,  at  least  not  much.  That's  not  the  reason 
I  won't  go  home." 

O'Kevin  felt  puzzled.  He  had  evidently  failed 
to  grasp  the  situation.  But  the  glow  of  kindly 
intention  by  no  means  died  in  him. 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  he  said,  "  what 
I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  him  carefully.  She  scanned 
him  from  head  to  foot.  Then  she  glanced  at  the  car 
which  the  driver  had  succeeded  in  backing  out  of 
the  ditch. 

"  You  look  like  a  gentleman,"  she  said.  "  Are 
you?" 

O'Kevin  was  a  Member  of  Parliament.  That  gave 


186  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

him  a  plain  right  to  call  himself  a  gentleman.  But 
he  was  a  modest  man. 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  said. 

"Then  I  expect,"  said  the  girl,  "that  it  will  be 
all  right  to  tell  you.  It's  despatches." 

"  Despatches  1"  said  O'Kevin. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  realise  exactly  what  she 
meant.  He  had  spent  the  evening  enrolling  an 
army,  but  he  had  not  yet  reached  the  stage  of  put- 
ting it  on  a  war  footing.  Then  he  recollected  that 
the  other  army,  the  opposition  one,  was  very  com- 
pletely organised,  and  was,  according  to  the  reports 
in  the  daily  papers,  particularly  rich  in  despatch 
riders.  The  assumption  that  if  he  were  a  gentleman 
he  must  be  in  full  sympathy  with  the  Ulster  Volun- 
teers nettled  him  a  little. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  "they  don't  send  little  girls 
like  you  to  carry  despatches." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "  I'm  only  in  the  Ambulance 
Corps,  learning  to  nurse  the  wounded,  you  know. 
Tom  is  a  despatch-rider.  But  poor  Tom  sprained 
his  ankle  yesterday,  and  so  when  the  despatches 
came  he  sent  me  with  them." 

"  But  your  mother — "  said  O'Kevin,  "  and  your 
father,  what  do  they  think  ?  " 

"  They  don't  exactly  know.  But  mother  won't 
really  mind,  and  father — well,  father  is  the  Colonel, 
you  know.  I'm  carrying  the  despatches  to  him. 
He'll  be  furious,  of  course,  but  he'll  get  over  it. 


THE  DESPATCH  RIDER  187 

He'd  be  much  more  furious  if  the  despatches  didn't 
arrive." 

"Where  is  your  father?"  said  O'Kevin. 

"  Head  Quarters,  Ballygore." 

"  Very  well.  Get  into  my  car.  It  must  be  over 
twenty  miles,  but " 

"  Will  you  really?  How  perfectly  sweet  of  you; 
but  of  course  you  may  be  a  Volunteer  yourself  and 
then  you'd  want  to.  Are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  O'Kevin,  quite  truthfully. 

"  I  thought  you  must  be,"  said  the  girl,  "  when  I 
saw  you  were  a  gentleman.  And  would  you  mind 
taking  this."  She  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  her 
jacket — evidently  Tom's  jacket — and  drew  out  a 
revolver.  "  I'm  so  awfully  afraid  of  its  going  off. 
It's  in  case  of  meeting  any  Nationalists,  you  know ; 
and  of  course  if  I  did  meet  one  I'd  shoot." 

Remembering  that  despatches  are  often  of  vital 
importance,  O'Kevin  told  his  driver  to  go  back  to 
Ballygore  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  twenty  miles 
were  covered  in  an  hour.  Most  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  town  had  gone  to  bed.  In  one  window  alone 
there  was  a  light  burning. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  the  girl. 

"  I'll  wait  for  you,"  said  O'Kevin,  "  and  drive  you 
home." 

The  girl  ran  into  the  office.  In  ten  minutes  she 
was  out  again  followed  by  a  middle-aged  man.  He 
approached  O'Kevin. 

"  I  won't  trouble  you  to  drive  my  little  girl  home," 


188  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

he  said.  "  But  I  want  to  thank  you  for  your  kind- 
ness to  her.  She  oughtn't  to  have  been  running 
about  the  country  on  a  motor-bicycle  at  night  by 
herself.  But  under  the  circumstances — well  she  has 
delivered  her  despatches,  thanks  to  your  kindness. 
May  I  hope  that  you  will  lunch  with  us  to-morrow  ? 
My  name  is  Daintree,  Cecil  Daintree." 

"  Mine  is  O'Kevin." 

"  O'Kevin !  But— but— but—  Surely  not  the  Mr. 
O'Kevin." 

"  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  I  may  call  myself  the  Mr. 
O'Kevin.  I  was  in  Ballygore  earlier  in  the  evening. 
I  daresay  you  heard  about  it.  I  was  forming  a  corps 
of  Nationalist  Volunteers." 

"  But  my  daughter — my  daughter  told  me " 

"That  I  was  a  gentleman?  I'm  sorry  for  the 
mistake." 

"  Most  extraordinary  thing  I  ever  heard  in  my 
life,  but  of  course — Sir,"  he  held  out  his  hand  as  he 
spoke,  "  I'm  delighted  to  hear  that  you're  training 
up  your  fellows  to  fight  like  men.  If  only  those 
politicians  would  stop  talking  and  let  us  settle  the 
matter,  like  gentlemen,  sir,  like  gentlemen." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  O'Kevin,  "  that  I  am  also  one 
of  the  politicians." 

Mr.  Daintree  jerked  his  head  back  and  swallowed 
with  an  evident  effort.  Then  he  seized  O'Kevin's 
hand. 

"  Never  mind,  sir,  never  mind.  Any  man  may 
find  himself  in  a  doubtful  position,  any  man.  But 


THE  DESPATCH   RIDER  189 

you're  doing  your  best  to  get  out  of  it,  and  no  man 
can  do  more  than  that.  Mr.  O'Kevin,  those 
despatches  didn't  matter  a  pin's  head.  There  wasn't 
anything  in  them.  But  I'll  not  forget  what  you've 
done  for  my  little  girl  to-night,  and  if  ever,  in  the 
future,  you  know,  any  of  your  despatch  riders 
happen  to  break  down,  I'll " 

"Help  them  out?" 

"  I'll  give  orders  to  our  fellows,"  said  Daintree, 
"  to  take  the  despatches  straight  to  you." 


XIII.— THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

"17  DIE,"  said  the  dean,  "don't  you  think  we 
••— '  might  stop  here  for  tea  ?  " 

The  hill  in  front  of  them  was  long.  Dean  Water- 
son  could  not  see  the  top  of  it  because  the  road 
twisted,  but  he  knew  it  was  long  because  he  had 
looked  it  out  beforehand  on  the  cyclist's  map  which 
he  carried.  It  was  also  steep. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John !  "  said  Edie. 

Her  voice  expressed  disappointment.  She  was 
very  eager  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  unknown  land 
beyond  the  hill.  The  steepness  did  not  affect  her. 

"  Let  us  go  on  a  little  further,"  she  pleaded. 

But  the  dean  was  determined.  He  dismounted 
and  laid  his  bicycle  on  the  side  of  the  road.  He  had 
already  ridden  much  further  than  he  wanted  to.  The 
duties  of  a  dean  are  not  a  good  preparation  for  a 
cycling  tour  in  company  with  an  energetic  girl  of 
eighteen  years  old.  Dean  Waterson  was  over  fifty, 
and  the  calves  of  his  legs,  though  shapely,  were 
soft. 

"  The  view  here,"  he  said,  "  is  very  fine." 

Edie  looked  round.  Her  uncle  was  right  about 
the  view.  They  had  climbed  a  hundred  feet  or  so, 
and  the  narrow  water  of  Killary  Bay  lay  below 
them.  Behind  it  rose  the  mountains,  green,  purple, 

190 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  191 

and  glorious.  Far  out  to  the  west,  half  veiled  in  a 
sunlit  haze,  was  the  Atlantic.  The  dean  took  off 
his  hat  and  wiped  his  forehead.  Then  he  dusted 
his  legs  carefully.  Knee  breeches,  buttoning  tightly, 
and  black  cloth  gaiters  are  not  the  best  wear  in  the 
world  for  cycling.  It  was  the  first  day  of  a  carefully 
planned  tour,  and  the  dean  was  already  regretting 
that  he  had  undertaken  it.  He  blamed  himself  for 
not  staying  quietly  at  home.  Be  blamed  Edie  for 
riding  faster  than  any  lady  ought  to  ride.  He 
blamed  his  sister  for  sending  this  very  inconvenient 
niece  to  spend  a  summer  holiday  with  him. 

Edie  unpacked  the  tea  things  from  their  satchel 
and  set  the  kettle  to  boil  on  its  little  spirit  stove. 
Then  she  looked  round  her  with  a  sigh  of  deep 
appreciation.  A  summer  term  in  Trinity  Hall  and 
honour  lectures  in  Modern  Literature,  with  an  occa- 
sional tea-party  in  "  The  Elizabethan  "  by  way  of 
recreation,  lead  to  a  full  enjoyment  of  a  cycling 
tour  in  Connemara. 

"  How  splendid  it  must  have  been  for  those  old 
knights,"  she  said,  "  who  used  to  '  ride  through  the 
world  redressing  human  wrongs.'  Wouldn't  you 
have  liked  to  live  then,  Uncle  John  ?" 

The  dean  was  not  sure.  The  old  knights  rode  on 
horses  and  not  bicycles,  and  so,  presumably,  hills 
did  not  trouble  them.  Yet  their  life  must  have  been 
physically  laborious. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Edie,  "  you'd  have  been  an 
abbot,  not  a  knight.  I  should  have  been  a  knight, 


192  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

and  when  I  begged  for  hospitality  at  your  monas- 
tery I  should  have  told  you  my  adventures.  I  wish 
we  could  have  an  adventure  now,  Uncle  John,  but  I 
suppose  we  shan't." 

"  The  kind  of  thing  you  have  in  your  mind,"  he 
said,  "  is  most  unlikely  to  happen  now.  Dragons 
are  almost  extinct." 

The  dean  had  a  pretty  wit.  His  jokes  often  won 
the  applause  of  Canons  after  dinner.  The  allusion 
to  dragons  was  in  quite  his  happiest  vein,  and  just 
suited  to  the  intelligence  of  Edie.  Unfortunately 
she  did  not  seem  to  appreciate  it. 

"  I  don't  suppose  that  we  shall  even  meet  a 
highwayman,"  she  said. 

A  heavy  vehicle,  pushing  two  jaded  horses  in 
front  of  it,  came  creaking  and  groaning  down  the 
hill.  A  "  shoe  "  brake,  pressing  hard  against  one 
of  the  back  wheels,  gave  a  kind  of  hoarse  shriek 
now  and  then.  The  driver  sat  hunched  up  on  the 
front  seat,  the  reins  hanging  loosely  from  his  hands. 
Beside  him,  and  in  three  rows  behind  him^  sat 
tourists,  obviously  tired  and  hungry  but  trying  to 
look  at  the  view  before  them  with  intelligent  appre- 
ciation. Nothing  could  be  less  romantic  than  their 
appearance.  Nothing  could  have  suggested  the 
adventurous  joys  of  knights  errant  or  the  depreda- 
tions of  highwaymen  less  than  this  char-a-banc. 
Edie  turned  from  it  with  disgust.  Her  kettle  boiled. 
A  few  minutes  later  she  handed  a  cup  of  tea  to  her 
uncle  and  pressed  him  to  help  himself  to  some 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  193 

crumbly  fragments  of  biscuits  from  a  paper  bag. 

The  dean,  who  was  very  thirsty,  drank  three  cups 
of  tea,  then  after  a  short  apology  to  Edie,  he  lit  his 
pipe.  He  rarely,  so  he  assured  her,  smoked  except 
in  his  study  in  the  deanery.  But  on  a  cycling  tour 
certain  liberties  are  permissible,  and  there  was  no 
one,  except  Edie,  to  see  him.  A  minute  later  he 
took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  put  it  into  his 
pocket.  As  a  dean  he  was  bound  to  uphold  the 
reputation  of  the  clergy  for  propriety  of  behaviour, 
and  there  was  a  man  coming  down  the  hill.  The 
dean  gazed  at  him  with  some  astonishment.  He 
was  unusually  tall,  very  thin,  and,  though  plainly 
quite  young,  wore  a  beard.  He  was  running  down 
the  hill,  dragging  a  bicycle  with  him.  This  was 
curious.  If  the  man  were  in  a  hurry,  why  did  he 
not  ride  the  bicycle?  If  he  were  not  in  a  hurry, 
why  did  he  run?  The  stranger  himself  offered  an 
explanation.  He  stopped  abruptly,  glanced  at  the 
dean's  bicycle,  and  then  dropped  his  own. 

"  Punctured,"  he  panted,  "  both  wheels — quite 
flat — must  get  on — return  it  all  right — excuse  me." 

He  picked  up  the  dean's  bicycle  as  he  spoke, 
mounted  it  quickly  and  sped  down  the  hill.  He 
looked  over  his  shoulder  as  he  went  and  shouted 
something.  Only  two  words  were  audible — "  My 
wife." 

The  dean  gazed  after  him  in  silent  amazement 
until  he  disappeared.  Then  he  opened  his  mouth 
and  said : 


194  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  Well,  I'm ." 

He  had  been  thirty  years  in  Holy  Orders,  and 
during  that  time  he  had  never  once  sworn.  Even 
under  the  emotional  excitement  of  this  moment  he 
had  sufficient  self-command  to  stop  before  uttering 
the  third  word. 

"  Uncle  John,"  said  Edie.  "  He's  a  highwayman, 
and  he's  stolen  your  bicycle.  I'll  go  after  him  and 
get  it  back." 

Her  eyes  were  sparkling  with  excitement.  An 
adventure  of  a  very  thrilling  kind  was  offering  itself 
quite  unexpectedly.  She  pulled  on  her  gloves  and 
ran  to  her  bicycle. 

"  Edie,"  said  the  dean,  "  come  back  at  once.  I 
can't  allow  you " 

But  Edie  was  not  to  be  turned  from  her  purpose. 
She  fumbled  for  a  moment  in  her  tool  bag,  drew  out 
a  repair  outfit  and  laid  it  on  the  ground. 

"  You  mend  those  punctures,  Uncle  John,  and 
then  come  after  me.  I'll  get  the  bicycle,  and  keep 
it  till  you  turn  up." 

The  dean  struggled  to  his  feet.  He  was  stiff  and 
tired,  but  he  made  a  brave  effort  to  reach  his  niece 
before  she  mounted  her  bicycle.  He  was  late  by 
half  a  minute.  She  waved  her  hand  to  him  as  she 
rushed  down  the  hill.  This  time,  being  absolutely 
alone,  the  dean  completed  the  sentence  he  had  begun 
before.  The  utterance  of  the  forbidden  word  gave 
him  a  curious  glow  of  satisfaction.  It  even  seemed 
to  restore  his  spirit  and  energy.  He  picked  up  the 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  195 

repair  outfit  which  his  niece  had  left  him,  and  turned 
to  the  discarded  bicycle. 

The  dean  understood,  theoretically,  how  to  mend 
a  punctured  tyre.  He  had  even  done  it  once,  with 
help.  But  his  hands  were  soft  and  the  cover  of  the 
stranger's  tyre  was  particularly  stiff.  He  broke 
both  his  thumb  nails  and  covered  himself  with  dust 
from  head  to  foot,  but  he  failed  to  detach  it.  After 
working  hard  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  swore 
again,  loudly.  As  he  did  so  be  became  aware  that 
he  was  overheard.  An  elderly  lady,  holding  a 
bicycle,  was  standing  beside  him  frowning  heavily. 
Her  face  was  naturally  adapted  for  the  expression 
of  stern  disapproval.  It  was  thin,  heavily  lined, 
pale,  and  there  was  a  well-marked  moustache  above 
her  lip.  She  looked  at  the  dean  through  pince-nez 
which  were  perched  on  the  bridge  of  a  hooked  nose. 

"  I  stopped,"  she  said,  "  to  see  if  I  could  be  of 
any  assistance  to  you.  But  after  hearing  the  expres- 
sion you  have  just  used,  I  shall  not ."  She 

stopped  abruptly.  The  dean  stood  up  and  began  to 
apologise.  She  interrupted  him  at  once. 

"  How  dare  you  speak  to  me,"  she  said,  "  when 
you've  stolen  my  husband's  bicycle?" 

"  If,"  said  the  dean,  "  that  young  man  who  passed 
here  half  an  hour  ago  is  your  husband,  I  must 
inform  you,  madam,  that  he  has  stolen  my  bicycle." 

The  lady  pointed  a  finger  at  the  machine,  which 
lay  upturned  on  the  road. 

"  Appearances  are  very  much  against  you,"  she 


196  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

said.  "  I  shall  ride  on  at  once  to  the  nearest  police 
barrack.  If  you  clear  your  character  later  on,  I 
shall,  of  course,  be  very  glad.  But,  judging  from 
the  language  I've  just  heard  you  use,  I  think  it  quite 
likely  that  you  are  a  common  thief." 

She  mounted  her  bicycle  as  she  spoke,  and  rode 
down  the  hill.  The  dean  stared  after  her.  He  was 
very  much  irritated  by  her  remarks.  It  is  the  duty 
of  the  clergy,  especially  of  the  higher  clergy, 
bishops,  archdeacons,  and  deans,  to  rebuke  the  laity 
for  doing  wrong,  and  even  at  times,  to  threaten 
them  with  unpleasant  consequences.  In  this  case 
the  natural  order  of  things  had  been  reversed.  A  lay 
person,  a  woman,  had  rebuked  the  dean  and  actually 
spoken  of  delivering  him  over  to  the  secular  power 
on  a  charge  of  theft.  This  was  most  disquieting. 
Coming  on  top  of  the  other  annoyances  of  the  day, 
the  long  ride,  the  loss  of  his  bicycle,  and  the  flight 
of  his  niece,  it  upset  the  dean's  temper  completely. 
He  kicked  the  punctured  bicycle  angrily,  and  set  off 
walking  down  the  hill. 

He  walked  two  miles  and  then  he  met  a  police- 
man, a  rosy-faced,  cheerful  young  man,  whose 
natural  gentleness  of  disposition  had  evidently  not 
been  soured  by  his  intercourse  with  the  criminal 
classes.  He  saluted  the  dean  respectfully. 

"  Begging  your  reverence's  pardon  for  asking," 
he  said,  "but  might  it  be  you  that  found  another 
gentleman's  bicycle  on  the  side  of  the  road  ?  " 

The  gaunt  lady  had  evidently  carried   out  her 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  197 

threat  and  complained  to  the  police.  This  was  the 
constable's  polite  way  of  approaching  a  delicate 
subject. 

"There  was  a  lady  beyond  at  the  barrack,"  he 
went  on,  "  that  was  saying  to  the  sergeant " 

The  dean  interrupted  him. 

"  Did  you  see  a  young  man,"  he  said,  "  about  an 
hour  ago,  a  tall  young  man  with  a  thin  beard,  riding 
a  bicycle  with  a  nickel-plated  acetylene  lamp  and  a 
luggage  carrier  ?  " 

"  I  did  not,"  said  the  constable,  "  but " 

"  That  young  man  has  stolen  my  bicycle,"  said 
the  dean,  "  and  must  be  arrested  at  once." 

The  constable  scratched  his  head. 

"  William  Clancy,"  he  said,  "  the  same  that  does 
be  doing  odd  jobs  for  the  gentlemen  when  they  are 
fishing,  was  telling  me  a  while  ago  that  he  seen  a 
young  man  of  the  sort,  and  says  he " 

"  Then  go  and  arrest  him  at  once,"  said  the  dean. 

The  constable  took  off  his  cap  and  scratched  his 
head  again. 

"  It  wasn't  long  after,"  he  said,  "  when  there  came 
a  young  lady  on  a  bicycle — a  fine  girl  she  was — 
riding  as  if  the  devil  was  after  her — saving  your 
reverence's  presence — and  says  she  to  me,  '  Did  you 
see  a  young  man,'  says  she,  '  and  him  on  a  bicycle 
with  a  nickel-plated  lamp  on  the  front  and  a ?" 

"  My  niece,"  said  the  dean. 

"She    might,"    said    the    constable,    cautiously. 


198  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  Anyway  I  didn't  see  the  man  she  was  after,  and  so 
I  couldn't  tell  her  which  way  he  was  gone." 

"And  which  way  did  she  go?" 

"  They  were  telling  me,"  said  the  constable,  "  that 
she  took  the  turn  before  you  come  to  Glen-a-Gimla, 
like  as  if  she  was  heading  for  Maam ;  but  from  what 
William  Clancy  was  telling  me  it  was  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Westport  that  the  young  man  went,  so  it's 
not  likely  that  she  got  him." 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  dean,  "  I  must  hurry  on.  I 
shall  have  to  telegraph " 

"  Maybe  now,"  said  the  constable,  "  it  might  be 
as  well  for  you  to  know  about  the  other  lady,  the 
one  that  came  into  the  barrack  and  told  the  sergeant 
that  you'd  found  a  bicycle  that  might  be  the  one 
that  her  husband  had  lost." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  dean,  "  I  don't  in  the 
least  want  to  hear  about  her." 

"  She's  there  this  minute,"  said  the  constable. 

"Where?" 

"  In  the  post  office,  sending  telegrams." 

The  dean  hesitated.  The  constable,  forgetting 
the  respect  due  to  the  Church,  winked. 

"  I  wouldn't  say,"  he  said,  "  that  she's  in  just  what 
you'd  call  a  sweet  temper.  She  was  bad  enough 
at  the  beginning,  but  when  the  sergeant  told  her 
there  was  a  fine-looking  young  girl  out  after  the 
man  she  was  looking  for,  she  got  mad  entirely." 

"  That  young  lady,"  said  the  dean,  severely,  "  is 
my  niece ;  and  she  wasn't  after  the  man." 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  199 

"  She  might  not ;  but  it  looked  mighty  like  as  if 
she  was." 

"  Not  in  the  way  you  mean ;  nothing  would  be 
further " 

"  What  the  sergeant  said  to  me  after,"  said  the 
constable,  "  was  that  them  old  ones  when  they're 
foolish  enough  to  marry  young  men — and  from 
what  William  Clancy  told  me  that  fellow  might 
have  been  her  son — must  expect  the  like  and 
nobody'd  pity  them." 

"  This,"  said  the  dean,  "  is  outrageous  and  scan- 
dalous. I  won't  have  my  niece's  name " 

"  The  sergeant  told  me,"  said  the  constable,  "  that 
what  the  old  lady  wanted  was  to  off  after  the  two 
of  them,  and  off  she'd  have  been,  only  that  he  dis- 
remembered  whether  it  was  the  young  man  that 
went  to  Westport  and  the  young  lady  to  Maam ;  or 
the  young  lady  to  Westport  and  the  young  man  to 
Maam ;  or  whether  the  two  of  them  went  the  one 
way  and  which  way  it  was.  The  talk  she  went  on 
with  when  she  heard  that  had  the  sergeant's  temper 
riz  so  that  he  went  very  near  telling  her  to  take  the 
road  to  Louisburgh." 

"  I  wish  he  had,"  said  the  dean  vindictively. 

"  It  could  be,"  said  the  constable  with  fine  impar- 
tiality, "  that  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had. 
She'd  have  been  out  of  your  reverence's  way  then ; 
but  the  way  things  is  at  the  present  time  I  don't 
know  but  what  you'd  be  better  not  meeting  her. 
She  has  it  in  for  you  about  the  bicycle,  saying  you 


200  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

stole  it,  though  anybody'd  know  your  reverence 
wouldn't  do  the  like;  and  when  she  hears  that  the 
young  lady  that's  after  her  husband  is  your 
niece " 

"  I  forbid  you  to  mention  my  niece  again,"  said 
the  dean  peremptorily.  He  turned  his  back  on  the 
constable  and  walked  in  a  rapid  and  dignified  way 
towards  Leenane.  He  was  not  clear  in  his  own 
mind  about  what  he  meant  to  do  when  he  got  there ; 
but  he  was  quite  determined  not  to  stand  any  longer 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  listening  to  scandalous 
suggestions  about  his  niece.  The  constable  hesi- 
tated. Duty  was  calling  him  in  two  different 
directions.  There  was  a  derelict  bicycle  somewhere 
on  the  road  of  which  he  ought  to  take  possession. 
There  was  also  a  probability  of  a  serious  breach  of 
the  peace  when  the  grey-haired  lady  met  the  dean 
in  the  post  office.  He  decided  in  the  end  to  go  back 
to  Leenane.  Being  very  much  the  better  walker  of 
the  two,  he  soon  overtook  the  dean. 

"  The  young  man,"  he  began,  in  an  easy  conver- 
sational tone,  "  had  a  notion  that  there  was  a  bag 
belonging  to  him  that  had  been  put  into  the  brake 
at  Letterfrack  in  mistake,  and  he  wanted  it  back." 

The  constable  walked  on  the  right  of  the  dean, 
respectfully,  about  a  yard  behind.  The  dean,  in 
order  to  give  the  impression  that  he  was  not  listen- 
ing, turned  his  head  to  the  left  and  stared  angrily  at 
the  bay. 

"  He  was  terribly  anxious  about  the  bag,  so  he 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  201 

was,"  said  the  constable,  "  for  when  he  found  that  it 
wasn't  in  the  hotel,  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  it 
was  gone  on  to  Westport  on  a  car  along  with  a 
gentleman  who  wanted  to  catch  the  night  mail  for 
Dublin." 

The  dean  twisted  his  shoulders  as  well  as  his  head 
towards  the  side  of  the  road,  and  walked  as  quickly 
as  it  is  possible  to  walk  sideways. 

"  It  was  on  account  of  that  that  he  went  on  to 
Westport,  hoping  to  overtake  the  car,  and  I  wouldn't 
say  but  he  might  have  come  up  with  it  somewhere 
on  this  side  of  Eriff,  for  from  that  William  Clancy 
told  me,  he  was  riding  fast." 

They  turned  the  last  corner  of  the  road,  and  came 
in  sight  of  the  hotel  and  the  post  office.  The  dean, 
with  a  sense  of  relief,  turned  his  head  straight  and 
looked  in  front  of  him. 

"  It's  herself  right  enough,"  said  the  constable. 

It  was.  The  grey-haired  lady  was  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  road  talking  with  considerable 
animation  to  the  young  man  who  had  taken  the 
dean's  bicycle. 

"  I'm  blessed,"  said  the  constable,  "  if  she  hasn't 
got  him  after  all.  And  the  young  lady  has  missed 
him,  which  is  what  doesn't  surprise  me,  seeing  she 
went  the  wrong  road  after  him." 

The  dean  pulled  himself  together  with  an  effort, 
smoothed  his  apron  carefully,  and  walked  on  in  a 
dignified  way. 

"  I   wouldn't   wonder   now,"   said  the  constable, 


202  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  but  she  might  be  asking  him  who  the  young  lady 
was.  She  has  all  the  look  of  it." 

The  young  man  caught  sight  of  the  dean  and 
stepped  forward.  He  held  his  cap  in  one  hand,  with 
the  other  he  led  the  stolen  bicycle. 

"  I  owe  you  an  apology,"  he  said  politely,  "  a  very 
sincere  apology.  The  fact  is,  that  a  bag  of  ours,  a 
bag  containing  my  wife's  evening  dress " 

"  This  is  my  bicycle,"  said  the  dean,  stiffly. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Eusebius !  "  said  the  lady. 

"  Yes,  my  dear." 

"  Allow  me,"  said  the  dean,  "  to  resume  possession 
of  my  own  bicycle." 

"  Not  till  you  give  my  husband  his,"  said  the 
lady. 

"  The  whole  thing  is  a  trifling  misunderstanding," 
said  the  young  man.  "  I  was  in  pursuit  of  the  bag. 
Yes,  yes,  by  all  means  take  your  bicycle.  My  dear, 
I  cannot  possibly  refuse — after  all  I  was  in  the 
wrong.  But  under  the  circumstances  I  am  sure,  sir, 
that  you  will  understand " 

"  My  niece  took  the  road  to  Maam,  didn't  she  ?  " 
said  the  dean  to  the  constable. 

"  And  it  turns  out,  I  needn't  have  gone,"  said 
Eusebius,  "  for  the  bag  was  at  Letterfrack  all  the 
time." 

The  dean  had  one  foot  on  the  step  of  his  bicycle 
and  was  hopping  rapidly  along  the  road.  He  always 
had  a  difficulty  in  mounting. 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  203 

"  My  wife  rode  after  me,"  said  Eusebius,  raising 
his  voice,  "  to  tell  me  that  the  bag  was  found  shortly 
after  I  left  Letterfrack.  Please  allow  me  to  apolo- 
gise. Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry?  Surely " 

The  dean  was  in  the  saddle,  gathering  speed  at 
every  turn  of  the  pedals. 

"  He's  after  the  young  lady,"  said  the  constable, 
"  that  was  after  you.  A  fine  young  lady  she  was 
as  any  you'd  see." 

He  watched  the  dean  as  he  spoke.  Eusebius  con- 
tinued to  his  wife  the  apology  he  had  meant  to  make 
to  the  dean. 

"  I  can't  think  how  I  came  to  do  it,"  he  said.  "  The 
sight  of  his  bicycle  lying  on  the  side  of  the  road 
tempted  me,  I  suppose.  I  meant  to  have  it  back  in 
ten  minutes.  I  knew  the  char-a-banc  couldn't  be  far 
in  front  of  me.  I " 

"  Be  jabers,  but  he  has  her,"  said  the  constable, 
who  was  watching  the  dean.  "  It's  herself  that's 
coming  down  the  hill  towards  him.  I'd  know  her 
out  of  a  thousand." 

Edie  dismounted  breathlessly  in  front  of  the  dean. 

"Oh,  Uncle  John!"  she  said.  "You've  got  it 
back  safe.  And  I  rode  miles  and  miles  after  the 
man.  I  tracked  him  along  the  road  by  the  marks 
of  his  tyres  in  the  dust;  until  all  of  a  sudden  I 
noticed  that  there  weren't  any  tracks.  Then  I  came 
back  intending  to  start  afresh.  I  should  not  have 
let  him  escape.  How  did  you  catch  him?  " 

"  Edie,"   said  the  dean,   "  I   understand — that   is 


204  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

to  say  I  imagine — that  these  people,  Eusebius  and 
his  wife,  are  going  back  to  Letterfrack.  They  are 
most  objectionable  people.  We  shall  stop  here  for 
the  night  so  as  to  avoid  falling  in  with  them  again." 

"Certainly,  Uncle  John,"  said  Edie.  "But  oh! 
wasn't  it  glorious?  Just  as  you  said  that  we  should 
have  no  adventures  this  one  happened.  I  never 
knew  anything  so  splendid.  Just  fancy!  A  real 
highwayman!  Perhaps  to-morrow  we  shall  meet 
another.  Don't  you  hope  so?" 

"  If  we  do,"  said  the  dean,  "  we  shall  go  straight 
home  without  finishing  our  tour." 


XIV.— TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL 

"T  SHALL  count  on  you,"  said  Mrs.  Danton; 
-*•  "you  must  dine  with  us  every  night  while 
That  will  be  three  nights  beginning  with  to-morrow. 
You  will  take  her  in  to  dinner,  of  course." 

"  I  can't  possibly "  I  began. 

"  You  must,"  said  Mrs.  Danton,  smiling  in  the 
delightful  way  in  which  Mrs.  Danton  does  smile. 
"  You  really  must.  You  know  what  our  party  is. 
We  fish,  every  one  of  us,  men  and  women.  We 
think  and  talk  of  nothing  else,  whereas  you  are  a 
clever  man,  the  only  clever  man  in  the  neighbour- 
hood." 

I  should  not  venture  to  call  myself  a  clever  man, 
though  I  won  a  Hebrew  prize  when  I  was  in  college, 
a  second  prize ;  and  since  then  have  done  a  little 
work  at  old  Gaelic.  Indeed  I  published  a  paper 
some  time  ago  in  "  The  Philologist "  on  the  connec- 
tion between  Gaelic  and  Sanskrit.  I  could  not 
flatter  myself  that  Mrs.  Danton  knew  anything 
about  either  Gaelic  or  Sanskrit,  and  I  was  quite 
unreasonably  pleased  to  hear  her  call  me  clever. 
Nobody  else  in  the  world  recognises  my  ability, 
except  my  sister  Margaret,  who  lives  with  me ;  and 
she  admires  me,  so  to  speak,  from  a  distance  in  an 
uneducated  and  uninspiring  way.  Mrs.  Danton  has 

205 


206  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

always  been  nice  to  me  since  I  first  knew  her,  and 
whether  she  knew  anything  about  Sanskrit  or  not 
I  appreciated  her  way  of  calling  me  clever.  I  would 
do  a  good  deal  to  please  Mrs.  Danton. 

"  Besides,"  she  went  on,  "  Lady  Egerton  said  in 
her  letter  that  Miss  Bently  particularly  wanted  to 
meet  you.  It  was  Lady  Egerton  who'  insisted  on 
me  having  her  here.  I  couldn't  well  refuse,  you 
know,  because  she's  Tom's  aunt." 

I  knew  beforehand  that  it  was  Lady  Egerton  and 
not  Miss  Bently  who  was  the  aunt,  and  so  I  was  not 
confused  by  Mrs.  Danton's  use  of  the  pronouns. 

"  Tom  is  furious,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  He  can't 
bear  literary  women ;  but  I  couldn't  help  myself." 

Tom  is  Mrs.  Danton's  husband.  He  fishes  when 
they  come  over  here  in  the  summer.  What  he  does 
at  the  other  seasons  of  the  year  when  he  is  else- 
where, I  do  not  know.  Very  likely  he  shoots  and 
hunts.  I  could  quite  easily  believe  that  he  would 
have  little  or  nothing  in  common  with  a  literary 
lady.  I  did  not  expect  to  have  much  in  common 
with  her  myself.  I  doubted  very  much  whether  my 
Hebrew  and  Gaelic  would  help  me. 

"  Her  name,"  said  Mrs.  Danton,  "  is  Rose,  Rose 
Bently.  I  looked  her  out  in  Mudie's  list,  and  I  find 
that  she's  written  a  novel  called  'Turquoise  and 
Pearl.'  You've  read  it  perhaps." 

She  looked  at  me  in  a  curious  way  as  she  spoke. 
If  I  had  not  known  Mrs.  Danton  as  a  woman  of  the 
world  whose  self-possession  it  was  impossible  to 


TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL  207 

shake,  I  should  have  thought  she  felt  a  little  shy  in 
making  the  suggestion  that  I  had  read  "  Turquoise 
and  Pearl." 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I've  never  even  heard  of  it." 

"  I  haven't  read  it,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  But 
there's  been  a  lot  of  talk  about  it.  The  men  had 
it  in  the  smoking-room  at  Deeside  when  we  were 
there  for  the  cock-shooting.  I  believe  it's — well, 
it's  not  exactly  the  sort  of  book  a  woman  would  care 
to  read." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  I  said  firmly,  "  but  I  cannot  possibly 
dine  with  you  to-morrow  night." 

I  am  the  curate  of  the  parish.  I  felt  that  I  could 
not  possibly  face  Miss  Rose  Bently.  I  am  not,  I 
trust,  prejudiced  or  narrow-minded;  but,  as  a 
clergyman,  I  do  not  feel  that  I  am  the  proper  man 
to  cope  with  an  emancipated  lady  novelist.  I  failed 
altogether  to  guess  why  Miss  Bently  should  want 
to  see  me. 

"  It  will  be  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Danton.  "  She 
won't  talk  that  way.  Lady  Egerton  would  not  have 
sent  her  here  if  she  was  in  the  least — in  fact,  now  I 
have  found  out  what  she  wrote,  I'm  rather  surprised 
that  Lady  Egerton  did  send  her  here.  As  a  rule 
Lady  Egerton  is  quite  the  opposite,  quite;  almost 
too  much  so.  She  disapproves  dreadfully  of  poor 
Tom.  You  needn't  be  afraid." 

*'  I'm  not  afraid,"  I  said  untruthfully.  Mrs. 
Danton  was  smiling  and  seemed  inclined  to  laugh 
outright.  "  The  fact  is  that  Margaret,  my  sister 


208  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Margaret,  promised  that  we'd  go  up  to  tea  at  the 
Rectory  to-morrow  night." 

"  Put  them  off,"  said  Mrs.  Danton,  "  and  bring 
Margaret  with  you.  She'll  be  one  woman  too  many, 
but  I'll  fit  her  in." 

Margaret  would,  I  knew,  detest  being  "  fitted  in." 
She  has  a  high  sense  of  personal  dignity.  She  also 
dislikes  Mrs.  Danton  because  she  imagines  that  Mrs. 
Danton  patronises  her.  This  is  quite  a  mistake,  and 
I  used  to  tell  her  so  at  first.  I  do  not  press  my  con- 
tradiction now,  because  she  has  a  theory  which  she 
puts  into  plain  words,  that  Mrs.  Danton  makes  a 
fool  of  me  and  winds  me  round  her  finger. 

"  I'm  sure,"  I  said,  "  that  Margaret  won't  break 
her  engagement." 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  if  she  doesn't,"  said  Mrs.  Dan- 
ton.  "  She  would  have  helped  me  with  Miss  Bently 
after  dinner.  But  I  shall  count  on  you.  After  all 
it's  simply  your  duty  to  come.  Isn't  it?  As  a 
clergyman,  I  mean." 

I  did  not  quite  see  how  my  duty  as  a  clergyman 
came  into  the  matter,  but  I  had  no  doubt  about  my 
inclination.  I  felt  shy  of  Miss  Bently,  but  I  reflected 
that  I  should  have  somebody  else  on  the  other  side 
of  me  at  dinner,  and  tea  at  the  Rectory  is  really  a 
very  dull  entertainment.  I  promised  to  do  my  best 
with  Miss  Bently. 

Margaret,  as  I  expected,  flatly  refused  to  dine 
with  the  Dantons.  She  said  that  if  she  was  wanted 
she  ought  to  have  been  asked  properly.  She  even 


TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL  209 

objected  to  my  going.  I  pointed  out  to  her  that  I 
was  asked  to  meet  a  lady  of  great  literary  eminence, 
and  that  the  invitation,  coming  as  it  did  at  the 
special  request  of  the  lady  herself,  was  most  flatter- 
ing. Margaret  sniffed.  I  went  on  to  explain  that 
my  opportunities  for  intellectual  intercourse  with 
clever  people  were  very  few  and  that  it  would  be 
a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  meet  Miss  Rose  Bently. 
I  brought  out  the  name  rather  anxiously,  sincerely 
hoping  that  Margaret  had  never  heard  of  "  Tur- 
quoise and  Pearl."  She  never  had.  Indeed,  when 
I  put  the  matter  that  way,  she  took  rather  a  nice 
view  of  it.  Margaret  is  really  fond  of  me,  and  has 
a  high  opinion  of  my  scholarship.  She  thinks  that 
here  in  Connemara  I  am  a  kind  of  unrecognised 
genius  pining  in  a  wilderness. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  if  Miss  Bently  is  really  a 
clever  woman " 

"  She  is,"  I  said.  "  Amazingly  clever.  Mrs. 
Danton  says  so." 

Margaret  sniffed  again. 

"  If  you've  only  got  Mrs.  Danton's  word  for 
it " 

"  Of  course,"  I  explained,  "  Mrs.  Danton  doesn't 
say  it  on  her  own  authority.  She  is  simply  repeat- 
ing the  opinion  current  in — in  London  and  other 
places." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Margaret.  "  If  she  really  is  a 
clever  woman  I  don't  want  to  deprive  you  of  the 
chance  of  talking  to  her.  But  I  won't  go." 


210  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Thus  it  happened,  very  much  I  imagine  to  Mrs. 
Danton's  relief,  that  I  went  up  to  dinner  without 
Margaret.  I  arrived  early  and  sat  for  some  minutes 
alone  in  the  drawing-room.  Then  Mrs.  Danton 
rushed  in  with  a  charming  apology  for  not  being 
downstairs  to  receive  me. 

"  I  wrote  for  the  book,"  she  said,  "  directly  I  was 
sure  she  was  coming.  I  wish  I  had  had  it  yesterday, 
so  that  you  could  have  read  it  before  you  met  her; 
but  it  didn't  come  till  this  afternoon.  Here  it  is." 

She  fished  a  book  in  a  red  cover  out  of  a  drawer  in 
her  writing  table. 

"I  kept  it  hidden,"  she  said,  "so  that  Tom 
shouldn't  get  hold  of  it.  If  he  did,  he'd  make  jokes. 
You  know  Tom's  sort  of  joke  ?  " 

I  did,  and  urged  her  to  conceal  the  book  again. 

"  I  can't  read  it  now,"  I  said.  "  There  wouldn't 
be  time.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  care  to  read  it  at  all." 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  all  right  for  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Danton.  "  Nobody  could  object  to  your  reading  it — 
as  a  clergyman,  I  mean." 

Mrs.  Danton  has  a  peculiar  view,  all  her  own,  of 
the  clerical  office.  I  am  never  quite  sure  what  she 
will  expect  me  to  do  or  say  "  as  a  clergyman." 

"  Keep  off  the  subject  as  well  as  you  can  for 
to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Danton,  "  and  read  it  to-mor- 
row. Then  you'll  be  able  to  talk  to  her  about  it." 

A  lady  entered  the  room. 

"  Miss  Bently,"  said  Mrs.  Danton.  "  How  nice 
of  you  to  be  down  in  such  good  time  after  your 


TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL  211 

journey.  Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Meres  to  you.  I 
know  you're  longing  to  meet  him,  and  he  is  looking 
forward  to  a  great  talk  with  you  about  books  and 
literature  and  art  and  music,  and  everything  that  we 
poor  ordinary  people  know  nothing  about." 

Miss  Bently  is  quite  a  good-looking  girl.  I 
thought  beforehand  that  she  might  be  good-looking 
in  a  handsome,  showy  style.  I  did  not  expect  her 
.to  be  a  girl.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  looked  little 
more  than  a  child.  I  should  have  put  her  down  at 
the  first  glance  as  about  eighteen  years  old.  She 
wore  a  very  plain  white  dress,  and  had  large, 
innocent-looking  eyes.  I  reflected  that  appearances 
are  extraordinarily  deceptive  things.  Miss  Bently 
did  not  look  as  if  she  could  possibly  have  written 
the  sort  of  book  which  would  shock  Mrs.  Danton. 
Mrs.  Danton,  being  Tom's  wife,  is  not  at  all  easily 
shocked.  I  commented  on  the  length  of  the  drive 
from  the  station,  and  the  extremely  unsatisfactory 
nature  of  our  train  service,  while  the  rest  of  the  party 
dribbled  into  the  room.  There  were  eight  of  them 
altogether,  without  counting  Tom,  who  was  late. 
They  were  all  fishing  people:  a  fishing  Colonel, 
with  a  wife  and  daughter  who  fished;  a  fishing 
stock-broker,  with  a  wife  who  was  an  enthusiast 
about  salmon;  an  elderly  Miss  Danton,  Tom's 
sister;  a  London  barrister,  the  butt  of  the  party, 
because  he  never  caught  anything;  and  a  non- 
descript boy,  who  was,  I  understood,  reading  for 


212  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Sandhurst.  No  one  showed  the  least  wish  to  inter- 
rupt my  conversation  with  Miss  Bently. 

We  trooped  in  to  dinner,  and  I  found  myself 
between  Miss  Danton  and  Miss  Bently.  This  sealed 
my  fate.  Miss  Danton  does  not  like  me.  She  does 
not,  I  believe,  like  anyone  whom  her  sister-in-law 
does  like.  I  knew  she  would  not  talk  to  me  under 
any  circumstances.  I  pulled  myself  together  and 
devoted  my  attention  to  Miss  Bently. 

"  Is  this,"  I  asked,  "your  first  visit  to  Ireland?" 

"  Yes.  I  spent  two  weeks  last  summer  in  the 
Hebrides,  North  Uist;  and  this  spring  I  was  in 
Brittany.  I  was  determined  to  visit  Ireland  next." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  us?  "  I  asked. 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  mild  surprise  in  her  eyes. 
I  felt  that  the  question  was  banal,  and  hastened  to 
redeem  myself. 

"  I  met  a  lady  once,"  I  said,  "  who  was  paying  her 
first  visit  to  Ireland.  She  told  me  that  the  thing 
which  surprised  her  most  was  that  Irishmen  never 
fall  in  love." 

This  was  not  strictly  true.  I  did  not  meet  that 
lady  myself.  It  was  Tom  Danton  who  met  her,  and 
told  me  afterwards  what  she  said.  But  I  thought 
the  remark  was  a  good  one  to  make  to  Miss  Bently. 
The  authoress  of  "  Turquoise  and  Pearl,"  supposing 
it  to  be  the  kind  of  book  Mrs.  Danton  said  it  was, 
ought  to  be  interested  in  this  peculiarity  of  Irishmen. 
I  fully  expected  Miss  Bently  to  say  something  bril- 
liant in  reply.  I  was  disappointed.  All  she  said  was : 


TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL  213 

"  Indeed." 

I  tried  again. 

"  I  suppose,"  I  said,  "  that  it  isn't  simply  for 
pleasure  that  you  have  come  here.  You  are  prob- 
ably hard  at  work." 

"  Indeed  I  am,"  she  said.  "  I  spent  the  last 
fortnight  in  the  Aran  Islands." 

"  Ah,"  I  said,  "  local  colour.  Isn't  that  the  phrase? 
You  couldn't  have  gone  to  a  better  place  for  it." 

Then  to  my  surprise  she  began  to  talk  about  the 
Irish  language.  It  is  still  spoken  in  great  purity  by 
the  Aran  Islanders.  I  was  still  more  surprised  when 
I  found  that  she  appeared  to  know  something  about 
the  subject.  She  quoted,  to  my  absolute  astonish- 
ment, the  opinions  of  Professor  Windlescheim,  of 
Heidelberg,  on  some  points  of  Gaelic  philology.  In 
the  course  of  our  conversation  I  gathered  that  she 
herself  was  half  German  and  that  the  Professor  was 
her  uncle.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  forgot  all 
about  her  literary  work,  and  allowed  myself  to  be 
seduced  into  giving  her  a  sort  of  lecture  on  ancient 
Gaelic  and  its  connection  with  the  early  Aryan  lan- 
guages. Before  the  ladies  left  us,  I  had  promised  to 
take  her  next  day  to  see  some  stones  with  Ogam 
inscriptions  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  parish. 

Afterwards,  while  Tom  Danton,  the  Colonel,  the 
stock-broker,  the  barrister,  and  the  boy  were  telling 
each  other  fishing  stories  of  extraordinarily  imag- 
inative power,  I  reflected  on  Miss  Bently.  My  sister 
Margaret,  who  of  course  understands  such  matters 


214  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

much  better  than  I  do,  has  often  told  me  that  any 
intelligent  woman  can  make  a  fool  of  any  man. 

"  All  she  has  to  do,"  so  Margaret  says,  "  is  to 
pretend  to  be  interested  in  his  particular  hobby  until 
she  starts  him  talking  about  it.  Then  she  need  only 
smile  and  he  will  think  her  charming." 

Margaret  is  very  wise.  I  leaped  to  the  conclusion 
that  Miss  Bently  had  played  this  trick  on  me.  I 
rather  resented  it,  but  was  forced  to  admit  that  she 
had  done  it  uncommonly  well.  I  should  not  have 
believed  beforehand  that  any  one  could  have  suc- 
cessfully pretended  to  possess  a  knowledge  of 
ancient  Irish. 

As  I  was  saying  good-night  Mrs.  Danton  slipped 
"  Turquoise  and  Pearl  "  into  my  hand.  I  took  the 
book  up  to  bed  with  me,  and  although  I  had  to  go 
downstairs  between  one  and  two  for  a  fresh  candle, 
I  finished  it  before  I  went  to  sleep.  It  was  worse, 
considerably  worse,  than  any  novel  I  had  ever  read. 
I  have  in  my  time  studied  the  classic  poets.  I  have 
also  read  the  early  fathers  of  the  Church.  "  Tur- 
quoise and  Pearl,"  without  being  so  plain-spoken  as 
either  the  poets  or  the  theologians,  was  a  great  deal 
more  disgusting. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  I  invited  Margaret  to 
join  the  expedition  to  the  Ogam  stones.  I  really 
wanter  her.  I  felt  that  I  required  a  chaperon.  I 
was  embarrassed  at  the  prospect  of  a  walk  alone 
with  the  authoress  of  "  Turquoise  and  Pearl."  Mar- 
garet refused  the  invitation. 


TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL  215 

"  I  should  only  be  in  the  way,"  she  said.  "  If  you 
and  Miss  Bently  are  going  to  talk  about  Sanskrit 
I  should  be  bored." 

"  We  probably  won't  talk  about  Sanskrit  to-day," 
I  said.  "  She  only  did  so  last  night  to  please  me. 
You've  often  told  me  that  that  is  what  clever  women 
do  with  men  like  me." 

"What  will  you  talk  about,  then?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  perhaps  about  novels.  Miss 
Bently,  it  appears,  is  rather  a  famous  novelist." 

"  Oh !  I  never  heard  of  her.  What  has  she 
written  ?  " 

"  She  didn't  tell  me  the  names  of  her  books,"  I 
said,  "  and  I  didn't  like  to  ask  her." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  her  books,"  said  Margaret, 
"  so  there's  no  use  my  coming  with  you." 

I  took  Miss  Bently  to  see  the  Ogam  stones.  We 
started  at  eleven  and  did  not  get  back  till  nearly 
two.  We  talked  the  whole  time  about  the  Gaelic 
language,  ancient  and  modern.  She  was  evidently 
bent  on  making  a  fool  of  me.  She  did  it  most  suc- 
cessfully. I  found  it  very  difficult  to  believe  that 
she  was  not  interested  in  what  I  said.  She  certainly 
displayed  extraordinary  intelligence.  She  said — at 
the  moment  I  actually  believed  her — that  she  had 
read  my  paper  in  "The  Philologist."  She  said — 
and  this  may  have  been  true — that  her  uncle,  the 
famous  Professor  Windlescheim,  of  Heidelberg,  had 
spoken  very  highly  of  my  work.  I  completely  forgot 


216  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

my  embarrassment  and  never  gave  a  single  thought 
to  "  Turquoise  and  Pearl." 

I  was  obliged  to  confess  to  Margaret  at  afternoon 
tea  that  the  conversation  during  our  walk  had  never 
once  turned  on  novels  or  novel  writing. 

"  She  must  be  a  really  clever  woman,"  said  Mar- 
garet thoughtfully.  Long  intimacy  with  Margaret 
had  given  me  the  power  of  guessing  pretty  accu- 
rately at  what  she  really  means  when  she  speaks. 
I  knew  that  upon  this  occasion  she  was  not  thinking 
of  Miss  Bently  as  a  savante,  and  that  the  cleverness 
which  she  recognized  had  nothing  to  do  with  Gaelic 
or  Sanskrit. 

"  I  wonder,"  Margaret  went  on,  "  why  she 
does  it." 

I  was  perfectly  frank  in  my  reply. 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  I  said.  "  But  she'll 
certainly  not  do  it  again.  I  shall  talk  about  novels 
at  dinner  to-night,  even  if  I  have  to  refer  to " 

I  paused. 

"Refer  to  what?" 

"  Turquoise  and  Pearl "  was  in  my  mind,  but  I 
said: 

"  The  Times  Book  Club." 

"  I  don't  see  any  difficulty  about  that,"  said  Mar- 
garet. "  Everybody  is  talking  about  it." 

They  were,  at  that  time. 

I  tried  to  keep  my  resolve.  Miss  Bently — I  took 
her  in  to  dinner  again  of  course — made  resolute 
efforts  to  return  to  the  Ogam  stones.  I  mentioned 


TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL  217 

the  name  of  every  novel  I  could  recollect,  and  com- 
mented freely  on  several  that  I  had  not  read.  Miss 
Bently  replied  in  monosyllables  and  displayed 
absolutely  no  interest  in  the  books. 

"  Miss  Bently,"  I  said  at  last,  "  we  talked  all  yes- 
terday evening  and  most  of  this  morning  about  my 
work.  Don't  you  think  it's  time  that  we  talked 
about  yours?" 

She  blushed.  With  the  recollection  of  "  Turquoise 
and  Pearl "  fresh  in  my  mind  I  don't  wonder  that 
she  blushed.  Even  Mrs.  Danton  would  blush,  I 
suppose,  if  suspected  of  having  read  the  book.  It 
was  plainly  much  worse  to  have  written  it.  I  am 
bound  to  say  she  looked  exceedingly  charming,  very 
innocent  and  shy,  when  I  spoke  directly  about  her 
work.  She  looked,  indeed,  very  much  as  I  recollect 
Margaret  looked  once  when  I  found  a  poem  that  she 
had  written.  She  was  a  schoolgirl  at  that  time.  I 
do  not  think  that  she  writes  poems  now. 

"  Oh,  my  work  is  nothing,"  said  Miss  Bently. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  said,  "  its  fame  has  pene- 
trated even  to  the  west  of  Ireland.  You  must  not 
think  us  utter  barbarians." 

"  I'm  in  great  hopes,"  she  said,  blushing  again 
more  charmingly  than  ever,  "  that  my  paper  for 
next  month's  meeting  of  the  British  Associa- 
tion  " 

"Your  what?"  I  asked. 

"My  paper.  Didn't  you  know?  But  of  course 
you  didn't.  How  could  you  ?  I  am  reading  a  paper 


218  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

in  the  philological  section  on  Gaelic  and  Icelandic 
roots.  My  uncle  is  going  over  it  for  me  and  correct- 
ing it.  That  is  the  reason  I  wanted  so  much  to 
meet  you." 

"  But  how  can  you  possibly ?" 

"  I'm  sure  it  will  be  no  good  really,"  she  said, 
"  but  if  you'll  allow  me  I  should  like  to  send  you  a 
copy  of  it  afterwards." 

"Miss  Bently,"  1  said,  "did  you  write ? 

I  mean  to  say  have  you  ever  read ?  What  I 

want  to  say  is,  are  you  familiar  with  many  modern 
novels  ?  " 

"  I  read  Miss  Yonge*s,"  she  said,  "  when  I  was  at 
school;  but  I've  been  so  busy  ever  since  I  went  up 
to  Girton  that  I  really  haven't  had  time  for  novels." 

After  dinner  I  got  Mrs.  Danton  into  a  corner  by 
herself. 

"  That  book,"  I  said,  "  '  Turquoise  and  Pearl '  is 
the  most  disgusting  thing  I  ever  read." 

"  You  seem  to  be  getting  on  very  well  with  Miss 
Bently  all  the  same,"  said  Mrs.  Danton. 

I  saw  that  she  was  laughing  at  me,  and  I  very 
nearly  Yiated  ner ;  although  sne  is,  in  spite  of  any- 
thing Margaret  can  say,  a  very  charming  woman. 

"  She  didn't  write  it,"  I  said,  "  and  it's  an  abomin- 
able insult " 

"  I  know  she  didn't,"  said  Mrs.  Danton.  "  Don't 
be  angry  with  me.  I  only  found  out  my  mistake 
to-night.  I'd  have  told  you  before  dinner  if  I'd  got 
a  chance.  I  was  talking  to  Tom  about  it.  He  knew 


TURQUOISE  AND  PEARL  219 

all  along  that  Rose  Bently  was  an  assumed  name. 
I  don't  mean  assumed  by  our  Miss  Bently,  I  mean 
the  other  woman,  the  real  one,  you  know.  I  don't 
wonder  she  didn't  use  her  own  name.  She's  a 
married  woman,  and  her  husband  is  trying  to  get  a 
separation  from  her  on  account  of  the  book.  Tom 
says  he  doesn't  wonder." 

"  I  don't  wonder  either,"  I  said.  "  I  shan't  return 
the  book.  I  shall  burn  it." 

"  You're  quite  right,"  said  Mrs.  Danton,  "  as  a 
clergyman,  I  mean,  of  course." 

Miss  Bently  and  I  went  again  the  next  day  to  see 
the  Ogam  stones.  We  talked  about  ancient  Gaelic 
and  some  other  things.  We  did  not  get  back  untri 
three  o'clock.  Margaret  was  out;  but  I  met  her 
later  on  at  afternoon  tea. 

"  Margaret,"  I  said,  "  I  have  something  very 
serious  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "  that  you're  engaged  to 
be  married  to  Miss  Bently! " 

"  Yes.    How  did  you  guess?  " 

"  It's  a  comfort  to  think,"  she  said,  "  that  being 
a  novelist,  she'll  be  able  to  earn  something.  YOJ? 
haven't  much  to  marry  on." 

"  She's  not  a  novelist,"  I  said.  "  She's  a  remark- 
able Gaelic  scholar." 

"  Does  she  keep  that  up  still  ?  "  said  Margaret. 

"  There's  no  keeping  up  about  it,"  I  said.  "  She's 
reading  a  paper  next  month  before  the  British 
Association  on  Gaelic  and  Icelandic  roots." 


220  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  But  she  is  a  novelist,"  said  Margaret.  "  You 
told  me  so,  yesterday." 

"  I  was  mistaken.  She  never  wrote  a  novel  in  her 
life  and  I  hope  she  never  will." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  There's  no  money  to  be 
got  out  of  Icelandic  roots." 

Margaret  prides  herself  on  her  strong  common 
sense.  I  am  inclined  to  regard  her  as  occasionally 
sordid. 

Just  before  I  went  up  to  dress  for  dinner  a  boy 
came  to  the  door  with  a  note.  It  was  from  Mrs. 
Danton. 

"  A  congratulation,  of  course,"  said  Margaret. 
"May  I  see  it?" 

She  leaned  over  my  shoulder  while  I  opened  and 
read  it. 

"  What  does  she  mean,"  said  Margaret,  "  by  that 
postscript  about  the  engagement  ring  being 
turquoise  and  pearls?  Pearls  are  supposed  to  be 
unlucky." 

"  It's  some  silly  joke,"  I  said.  "  You  never  can 
tell  what  Mrs.  Danton  means  when  she  tries  to 
make  jokes." 


XV.— THE  GHOSTS 

R.  COLE,"  said  the  parlourmaid,  announcing 
the  curate  at  the  drawing-room  door. 

Nellie  L'Estrange  rose  from  the  chair  in  which 
she  had  been  nestling  before  the  fire,  laid  down  her 
book,  and  greeted  the  Rev.  John  Cole  with  a  smile 
of  welcome.  She  did  not,  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, care  for  entertaining  the  curate,  whom  she 
regarded  as  a  bore;  but  the  day  had  been  persist- 
ently wet,  and  for  many  hours  she  had  not 
interchanged  a  word  with  any  one.  Besides,  there 
was  always  a  certain  amount  of  pleasure  to  be  got 
out  of  teasing  Mr.  Cole.  He  was  curiously  defence- 
less when  Nellie  poked  fun  at  him. 

"  My  mother,"  she  said,  "  is  upstairs.  She  has  a 
very  bad  headache  to-day ;  but  I  shall  be  so  pleased 
if  you  will  stay  and  have  tea  with  me." 

Mr.  Cole  expressed  great  sorrow  for  Mrs. 
L'Estrange.  Then  he  sat  down  and  began  to  talk 
heavily  about  the  sensational  event  which  a  week 
before  had  broken  the  calm  of  the  village.  A  tramp 
of  most  disreputable  appearance  had  been  found 
dead  one  morning  in  the  churchyard.  He  had, 
apparently,  sought  shelter  for  the  night  behind  a 
tombstone.  A  coroner's  jury  sat  upon  his  body  and 
brought  in  a  very  proper  verdict.  Then  Mr.  Cole 

221 


222  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

buried  him  almost  in  the  exact  spot  on  which  he 
died.  The  subject,  once  exciting  enough,  bored 
Nellie.  She  had  heard  all  she  wanted  to  hear  about 
the  dead  tramp. 

"  So  nice  of  him,"  she  said  flippantly,  "  to  choose 
such  a  convenient  place  to  die.  I  daresay  now,  if 
there  had  happened  to  be  an  open  grave  he'd  have 
lain  down  in  it,  and  then  you'd  have  had  nothing  to 
do  but  cover  him  up.  He  couldn't,  of  course,  do 
that  for  himself." 

Mr.  Cole  sought  for  a  rebuke  suitable  for  Nellie's 
flippancy.  Before  he  found  one  the  parlourmaid 
entered  with  the  tea-tray.  Mr.  Cole  disliked  the 
parlourmaid,  whose  name  was  Esther,  because  he 
suspected  her  of  being  nearly  as  flippant  as  Nellie 
herself.  He  did  not  speak  again  until  the  girl  had 
left  the  room.  Then  he  handed  Nellie  the  buttered 
toast,  fishing  it  up  out  of  the  fender  with  some 
trouble,  and  began  a  new  discourse. 

"  The  amount  of  superstition,"  he  said,  "  which 
still  lingers  in  these  remote  villages  is  surprising 
and  depressing.  I  understand  that  no  one  will  go 
near  the  churchyard  at  night  since  the  tramp  died 
there.  The  bucolic  mind  remains  impervious  to  the 
efforts  of  educationists.  It  is ' 

He  spoke  very  pompously,  so  Nellie  interrupted 
him  at  once. 

"  Is  there  really  a  ghost?  "  she  said.  "  How  jolly ! 
Do  you  know,  I've  never  seen  a  ghost,  have  you?" 


THE  GHOSTS  223 

"  The  subject,"  said  Mr.  Cole,  "  is  not  one  I  care 
to  joke  about." 

"  Surely  you  don't  really  believe  there  is  a  ghost 
in  the  churchyard  ?  " 

"  I  regard  the  stories  the  village  people  tell  as 
pure  fabrications,"  said  Mr.  Cole;  "but  I  am  far 
from  venturing  to  assert  dogmatically " 

"  But  what  do  the  village  people  say?" 

Mr.  Cole,  somewhat  unwillingly,  repeated  a  story 
of  a  tall,  white  figure,  seen  night  after  night  flitting 
among  the  tombstones.  It  was  a  ghost  of  the  most 
orthodox  description,  and  the  road  near  the  church- 
yard, which  was  nearly  a  mile  from  the  village,  had 
got  a  very  bad  name.  Nellie  ridiculed  each  point  of 
the  story,  and  it  appeared  to  Mr.  Cole  that  she  was 
also  ridiculing  him.  He  disliked  being  laughed  at, 
and  asserted  his  dignity  by  saying  several  very 
ponderous  things  about  psychical  phenomena.  Nel- 
lie seemed  to  find  them  irresistibly  comic. 

Esther,  the  parlourmaid,  entered  with  a  fresh 
plate  of  buttered  toast.  Her  face  was  perfectly 
demure,  but  Mr.  Cole  formed  the  opinion  that  she, 
too,  was  inclined  to  laugh  at  him.  He  became 
painfully  self-conscious,  and  talked  more  pompously 
than  ever. 

"  Mr.  Cole,"  said  Nellie  suddenly,  "  will  you  take 
me  to  see  the  ghost  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  very  well  do  that,"  said  Mr. 
Cole.  "The  fact  is " 


224  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  The  fact  is  that  you're  a  little  nervous.  Is  that 
what  you  are  going  to  say  ?  " 

He  intended  to  say  something  quite  different. 
The  ghost,  according  to  the  witness  of  the  villagers, 
was  not  timed  to  appear  until  twelve  o'clock  at 
night.  Mr.  Cole,  as  a  clergyman,  had  a  character 
to  lose.  He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  parading  the 
roads  at  midnight  alone  with  Miss  L'Estrange.  He 
hesitated.  It  was  not  easy  to  put  his  feelings  into 
words  without  being  insulting.  Nellie  was,  appar- 
ently, quite  reckless  about  her  character. 

"  You  are  afraid,"  she  said.  "  I  can  see  it  by  your 
face/' 

"  I'm  not  the  least  afraid,"  he  said,  "  and  if  you 
really  wish " 

"  There's  nothing  I  should  like  more,"  said  Nellie. 
"I  told  you  I  had  never  seen  a  ghost,  and  we  all 
ought  to  see  one  at  least  before  we  die.  I  may  never 
get  such  a  chance  again.  Besides,  it  can't  do  me 
any  harm  if  you  are  with  me,  can  it?  You'd 
exorcise  it." 

She  looked  at  him  as  she  spoke  in  such  a  very 
agreeable  way  that  Mr.  Cole  was  mollified.  He 
made  up  his  mind  to  outrage  propriety.  "Very 
well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  call  for  you  at  half-past  eleven. 
I  hope  the  rain  will  have  stopped  by  that  time." 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "  that  the  ghost  will 
mind  the  rain?  From  what  we're  told  about — you 
know  the  place  I  mean,  Mr.  Cole — I  should  have 


THE  GHOSTS  225 

thought  a  ghost  of  that  sort  would  rather  like  a  little 
cold  water." 

This  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Cole.  He  refused, 
always,  to  make  jokes  on  sacred  subjects.  He  rose 
and  said  good-bye  to  Nellie. 

"  Don't  forget  now,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  expect 
you  at  half-past  eleven  sharp.  You  mustn't  either 
ring  or  knock.  I  shall  be  looking  out  for  you,  and 
there's  no  use  disturbing  mother — she  has  such  a 
dreadful  headache,  poor  dear." 

Mr.  Cole  walked  back  to  his  lodgings  through  the 
rain,  and  wished  very  much  that  he  saw  some  way 
of  curing  Miss  L'Estrange  of  flippantly  irreverent 
talk.  He  wanted  to  do  this,  not  for  his  own  satis- 
faction, but  for  her  good.  He  felt  that  he 
would  like  to  be  in  a  position  to  laugh  at  her  as  she 
laughed  at  him — always,  of  course,  for  her  good. 
The  recollection  of  the  way  she  had  looked  at  him 
sideways  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  made  him 
all  the  more  anxious  to  assert  his  dignity.  Just  as 
he  reached  his  lodgings,  a  great,  a  really  brilliant 
idea,  struck  him. 

Mr.  Cole  had  a  young  nephew — a  schoolboy  of 
fifteen  years  of  age — an  engaging  youth  of  great 
physical  energy.  Owing  to  an  outbreak  of  measles 
in  his  own  proper  home  this  boy  was  spending  a 
dull  and  tedious  Christmas  holiday  with  his  clerical 
uncle. 

"  Georgie,"  said  Mr.  Cole,  "  you've  heard  all  this 
talk  about  the  ghost  in  the  churchyard,  I  suppose  ?  " 


226  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  Rotten  piffle,"  said  Georgie,  who  had  a  fine 
command  of  language. 

"  Quite  so.  You  don't  believe  in  ghosts,  of 
course  ?  " 

"  Rather  not.    Not  such  a  beastly  mug." 

"  Would  you  have  any  objection  to  dressing  up 
as  a  ghost,  and  appearing  in  the  churchyard 
to-night?  There's  some  one  I  rather  want  to  play 
a  trick  on." 

"  I'm  on,"  said  Georgie.  "  You  trot  out  your 
juggins  at  the  right  mo.,  and  I'll  make  every  par= 
ticular  hair  of  his  head  stand  on  end  like  bristles  on 
the  frightful  crocodile." 

Driven  to  desperation  by  the  wet  afternoon, 
Georgie  had  been  dipping  into  the  works  of  the  poet 
Shakespeare.  "The  Old  Cow" — it  was  thus  that 
Georgie  spoke  of  his  form  master — had  suggested 
one  of  the  plays  as  good  holiday  reading. 

"  What's  more,"  he  added,  "  I'll  jump  on  his  back 
and  scrag  him  until  he  shrieks  like  a  what-do-you- 
call-it  drake  dragged  out  of  the  earth." 

Mr.  Cole  was  not  as  familiar  with  Shakespeare  as 
he  might  have  been.  He  failed  to  recognize  the 
mandrake. 

"  You  needn't  do  that,"  he  said.  "  The  fact  is  that 
the  person  I  want  to  frighten  is  a  girl." 

"  Oh,"  said  Georgie  doubtfully.  His  hesitation 
was  not  the  result  of  any  chivalrous  impulse.  He 
merely  dreaded  complications.  "Will  she  faint?" 

"  No.    I  shall  be  there  to  protect  her." 


THE  GHOSTS  227 

This  opened  up  new  and  attractive  possibilities 
to  Mr.  Cole.  He  began  to  think  of  himself  as  the 
hero  of  the  drama,  Nellie  taking  the  part  of  the 
damsel  in  distress.  Georgie  put  his  thought  into 
words  for  him. 

"  Regular  good  old  Perseus  you'll  be,  Uncle  John, 
slaughtering  Andromeda  with  a  curly  sword  like 
the  picture  in  the  classical  dictionary." 

An  old  surplice,  a  garment  with  sleeves  of  super- 
natural shape,  was  found  for  Georgie.  He  agreed 
to  remain  concealed  behind  a  tombstone  until  the 
church  clock  struck  twelve.  Then  he  would  slip 
on  the  surplice,  emerge,  and  wave  his  arms,  stand- 
ing on  any  convenient  eminence.  He  spent  the 
evening  practicing  a  ghostly  way  of  walking.  He 
achieved,  as  a  result,  a  very  fair  caricature  of  Miss 
Maud  Allen's  dancing.  At  eleven  o'clock  his  spirits 
became  a  little  less  buoyant.  He  suggested  that  his 
uncle  should  accompany  him  to  the  churchyard, 
hide  behind  another  tombstone,  and  rescue  the 
damsel  from  there.  Mr.  Cole  explained  that  this 
was  quite  impossible,  and  Georgie,  who  was  a  brave 
boy  at  heart,  went  off  with  the  surplice  in  a  paper 
parcel.  His  last  words  to  his  uncle  were  those  of 
strong  assurance. 

"  I  know  jolly  well,"  he  said,  "  that  there's  no 
such  bally  thing  as  a  ghost.  Nobody  but  rotten 
little  kids  believes  in  them." 

At  half-past  eleven  Nellie  slipped  out  of  the  door 
and  joined  the  Rev.  John  Cole  on  the  lawn.  There 


228  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

was  still  a  light  in  Mrs.  L'Estrange's  bedroom 
window,  so  they  did  not  greet  one  another.  The 
village  street  was  empty,  and  Mr.  Cole  congratu- 
lated himself  that  the  expedition  was  not  attracting 
public  attention.  They  reached  the  end  of  the  road 
which  led  to  the  church  in  safety.  Mr.  Cole  noticed 
then  that  Nellie  was  less  talkative  than  usual. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  at  last,  "  you  don't  really 
believe  there  are  such  things  as  ghosts?" 

"  I'm  not  at  all  sure  about  that,"  he  said.  "  Very 
queer  things  happen  sometimes." 

He  was  anxious  to  work  Nellie  up  to  a  condition 
of  mind  suitable  to  the  surprise  which  awaited  her. 
He  thought  he  detected  evidence  of  a  slight  nervous 
excitement  in  the  tone  of  her  voice. 

"  There  are  some  quite  unaccountable  things," 
he  went  on,  "which  are  attested  by  trustworthy 
witnesses.  It  is  always  possible  that  we  may  be 
mistaken  in  our  sceptical  attitude  towards  these 
psychic  phenomena." 

Mr.  Cole  spoke  quite  sincerely.  The  road  was 
extremely  dark.  The  wind  made  a  curious  and 
disagreeable  noise  among  the  branches  of  the  trees. 
There  was  certainly  a  churchyard  ahead  of  them  in 
which  a  tramp  of  unknown  antecedents  had  quite 
recently  been  buried.  The  belief  of  the  villagers 
was  strikingly  strong  and  definite.  Mr.  Cole, 
though  he  did  not  for  a  moment  think  he  would  see 
anything  worse  than  Georgie  in  a  surplice,  felt 
thrilled.  He  recalled  a  word  which  seemed  to 


THE  GHOSTS  229 

describe  this  ghost  hunt  of  his.  It  was  eerie.  Nellie 
giggled.  It  seemed  to  Mr.  Cole  that  her  giggle  was 
another  symptom  of  extreme  nervousness. 

They  reached  the  churchyard,  and  Mr.  Cole, 
peering  at  the  face  of  his  watch,  said  that  they  had 
still  five  minutes  to  wait.  He  suggested  that  they 
should  sit  down  at  the  gate  with  their  faces  towards 
the  graves.  Nellie  caught  him  suddenly  by  the  arm. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  she  said,  pointing  towards  the 
church  through  the  gloom. 

Mr.  Cole  started.  He  did  not  like  being  clutched 
unexpectedly;  and  there  was  something  white 
glimmering  faintly.  He  stared  at  it. 

"That's  nothing,"  he  said.  "At  least,  it's  only 
the  white  marble  cross  over  old  Hoskyn's  grave.  I 
know  it  well.  You're  not  frightened,  are  you?" 

"  No,"  said  Nellie.  "  Of  course  not.  But  it  did 
look — just  for  a  moment " 

The  church  clock  struck.  Mr.  Cole  waited  in 
tense  excitement.  At  the  fifth  stroke  Georgie  glided 
from  behind  old  Mr.  Hoskyn's  monument  and  began 
to  wave  his  arms.  At  the  tenth  stroke,  another 
white  figure,  in  a  much  more  voluminous  white 
robe,  stepped  out  from  the  shelter  of  another  tomb- 
stone. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  said  Mr.  Cole. 

Then  Georgie  yelled.  This  was  no  part  of  the 
programme  as  originally  arranged;  and  the  yell 
sounded  like  a  genuine  expression  of  fear.  The 
other  ghost  shrieked  wildly.  Then  both  ghosts 


230  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

made  a  rush  for  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  Nellie 
gave  a  sharp  cry  of  terror  and  then  fled  swiftly  down 
the  road.  Mr.  Cole  stood  his  ground  for  an  instant. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  it  was  his  duty  to  succour 
Georgie.  Another  glance  at  the  unexpected  ghost 
decided  him  against  taking  unnecessary  risks.  He 
overtook  Nellie  at  the  end  of  the  first  hundred  yards. 

"Help  me!"  she  said.  "Oh,  help  me,  it's 
after  us!" 

It  was.  Indeed  both  of  them  were.  Mr.  Cole  was 
not  obliged  to  look  round  to  make  sure  of  the  fact. 
The  shrieks  of  both  ghosts  rang  out  frightfully. 
They  had  evidently  passed  the  gate,  and  were  in 
hot  pursuit  down  the  road.  Mr.  Cole  grasped 
Nellie's  wrist  and  dragged  her  at  a  break-neck  pace 
down  the  hill.  The  ghosts,  as  well  as  he  could  judge 
by  the  sound  of  their  footsteps,  were  gaining 
rapidly.  He  glanced  behind  him.  Georgie,  ham- 
pered by  the  unaccustomed  folds  of  the  surplice, 
was  not  running  his  best.  He  had  secured  a  lead  of 
not  more  than  ten  yards  from  the  second  ghost.  Mr. 
Cole  trod  on  a  corner  of  Nellie's  skirt,  staggered, 
and  then  stumbled.  Nellie,  checked  suddenly  in  her 
career,  stumbled,  too,  clutched  at  Mr.  Cole  with  her 
disengaged  hand,  and  dragged  him  down  in  her  own 
fall.  The  next  catastrophe  was  inevitable.  Georgie, 
uttering  a  wild  whoop,  tripped  over  his  uncle's  legs 
and  also  fell.  Mr.  Cole  was  dimly  conscious  of  a 
mass  of  whirling  white  draperies,  and  then  the  other 
ghost  flung  itself  upon  Miss  L/Estrange. 


THE  GHOSTS  231 

"  Miss  Nellie !  Miss  Nellie !  "  it  said.  "  Don't  let 
it  catch  me !  It's  after  me !  It's  after  me !  It'll  get 
me !  Save  me,  Miss  Nellie !  " 

Mr.  Cole,  after  a  struggle,  sat  up.  It  is  greatly 
to  his  credit  that  his  reasoning  faculties  were  unim- 
paired by  all  he  had  been  through.  He  reflected  on 
the  nature  of  ghosts,  and  remembered  the  fact  that 
none  of  them  are  able  to  speak  until  they  are  spoken 
to.  This  ghost  had  certainly  not  been  addressed  by 
any  one.  It  occurred  to  him  also  that  no  real  ghost 
was  likely  to  be  frightened  by  a  schoolboy  in  a 
surplice.  But  the  creature  which  grovelled  on  the 
ground  beside  him  was  unquestionably  in  a  state 
of  abject  terror.  It  struck  him  finally  that  the  voice 
in  which  it  made  its  appeal  was  very  like  the  voice 
of  Mrs.  L'Estrange's  parlourmaid. 

"Esther,"  said  Nellie,  "get  up  off  my  legs. 
You're  hurting  me." 

Mr.  Cole  noticed  that  Georgie  was  giggling  con- 
vulsively. He  spoke  to  him  sternly.  "  Get  up, 
Georgie.  Stop  laughing  at  once  and  take  off  that 
ridiculous  surplice." 

Esther,  recovering  her  self-control,  stood  up  and 
plucked  pins  hurriedly  out  of  the  sheet  in  which  she 
was  draped.  Mr.  Cole  dragged  the  surplice  off 
Georgie.  Nellie  stared  at  the  boy  for  a  minute. 
Then  she  turned  to  Mr.  Cole. 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  might  have  died 
of  fright." 

"  I  don't  see "  said  Mr.  Cole. 


232  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  It  was  a  most  ungentlemanly  trick  to  play,"  said 
Nellie. 

"  I  don't  see  that  there's  much  to  choose  between 
us.  We  both  seem  to  have  hit  on  the  very  same 
idea." 

"  Esther,"  said  Nellie,  "  come  home,  and  don't 
go  into  hysterics  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Mr. 
Cole,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again ! " 

This  was  very  unjust,  but  there  are  excuses  to 
be  made.  A  good  evening  dress  was  permanently 
ruined,  and  some  account  of  the  mud  on  it  would 
have  to  be  given  to  Mrs.  I/Estrange. 

"  Miss  L'Estrange,"  said  Mr.  Cole,  "  wait  one 
moment.  There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

"  Well,"  said  Nellie,  looking  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  will  be  best  for  us  all — I 
mean,  wouldn't  it  be  wiser  for  us  to  agree  to  say 
nothing  about  this  unfortunate  business  to  any- 
body?" 

"  I'm  glad  to  see,"  said  Nellie,  "  that  you're  a  little 
ashamed  of  yourself." 

"  I'm  not.  I  was  merely  thinking  how  awkward 
it  would " 

"  Then  you  ought  to  be.  And  I'll  never  speak  to 
you  again  until  you  are." 

Mr.  Cole  watched  her  disappear. 

"  Girls  are  rotters,"  said  Georgie,  "  aren't  they, 
Uncle  John?" 

Mr.  Cole  made  no  answer. 


THE  GHOSTS  233 

"  Last  term,"  said  Georgia,  as  they  walked  back 
to  the  village  together,  "  the  Old  Cow  made  us  learn 
a  footy  poem  by  a  man  called  Scott.  I  thought  it 
beastly  muck  at  the  time.  It  was  about  girls,  and 
it  said  that  they  were  '  uncommon  shy  and  hard  to 
please/  I  see  now  that  the  old  Johnnie  who  wrote 
it,  whoever  he  was,  jolly  well  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about.  Anybody  would  have  thought  she'd 
have  enjoyed  the  spoof;  but  she  evidently  didn't." 


XVI.— THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE 

COLONEL  JOCELYN,  D.S.O.,  is  quite  our 
most  eminent  relative.  He  is  my  wife's  first 
cousin,  which  entitles  her  to  speak  of  him  as 
"  Gilbert "  and  "  dear  old  Gilbert,"  although  I  do 
not  think  she  has  actually  seen  him  a  dozen  times  in 
her  life.  She  is  particularly  fond  of  talking  about 
him  to  the  Fulkingtons.  They  are  inclined  to  pride 
themselves  on  their  social  position  and  to  be  very 
exclusive.  It  is  good  for  them  to  be  made  to  under- 
stand that  we  are  quite  as  well  connected  as  they 
are.  When  the  Colonel  won  his  D.S.O.,  young 
Fulkington,  who  is  quite  as  snobbish  as  his  wife, 
was  visibly  impressed.  When,  a  little  later  on,  the 
Colonel  was  appointed  chief  of  the  South  Australian 
police  force,  my  wife  went  over  to  the  Fulkingtons' 
house  on  purpose  to  tell  them  the  news.  By  way  of 
emphasizing  the  relationship,  she  said  that  dear  old 
Gilbert  intended  to  pay  us  a  short  visit  before  sailing 
for  Australia.  He  wanted,  she  said,  to  have  a  long 
talk  about  old  times.  She  added  that  the  Fulking- 
tons must  dine  with  us  to  meet  him  when  he  came. 
Mrs.  Fulkington,  who  probably  expected  the 
Colonel's  visit  quite  as  little  as  my  wife  did,  said 
that  we  must  spare  an  evening  and  bring  him  over 
to  dine  with  them.  My  wife  promised  to  do  this, 

234 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      235 

feeling  quite  safe  because  the  Colonel  had  never 
shown  the  slightest  wish  to  come  near  us.  I  do  not 
blame  him  for  this.  We  are  not  well  off,  and  we 
live  a  very  retired  life  in  a  village  which  would 
strike  him  as  particularly  dull. 

Our  surprise  was  great — I  have  no  doubt  that  the 
Fulkingtons'  was  equally  great — when  the  Colonel 
telegraphed  to.  say  that  he  was  going  to  Scotland  for 
the  grouse-shooting,  and  would  pay  us  a  two  days' 
visit  on  his  way.  The  telegram  arrived  on  Monday, 
August  7th,  and  told  us  that  we  might  expect  him 
on  the  following  Wednesday.  The  time  at  our  dis- 
posal was  uncomfortably  short,  but  we  at  once 
wrote  to  the  Fulkingtons,  claiming  them  as  our 
guests  on  Wednesday  night.  They  are,  after  all, 
the  most  presentable  people  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Mrs.  Fulkington  replied,  accepting  the  invitation, 
and  proposing  that  we  and  the  Colonel  should  dine 
with  her  on  Thursday.  Then  we  settled  down  to 
the  work  of  preparation.  Most  of  it  fell  to  my  wife's 
share,  for  I  am  singularly  useless  in  a  domestic 
crisis,  and  I  find  that  my  help  has  an  irritating  effect 
on  the  other  workers.  Therefore  I  kept  out  of  the 
way — that  is  to  say,  out  of  the  house — as  much  as 
possible,  and  made  no  inquiries  about  the  details  of 
the  plans  for  the  Colonel's  entertainment. 

On  Wednesday  morning  I  went  into  the  garden, 
at  my  wife's  request,  to  make  final  arrangements 
about  something  connected  with  our  dinner— arti- 
chokes, I  think.  When  I  had  settled  about  the 


236  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

artichokes  I  spent  an  hour  with  the  gardener,  dis- 
cussing, pleasantly  enough,  the  extraordinary 
wickedness  of  the  judges  at  our  local  flower  show, 
who  had  not  given  a  prize  to  our  carnations.  Then 
I  saw  my  wife  hurrying  toward  us  along  the  centre 
path  of  the  garden.  I  knew  that  something  serious 
and  unpleasant  had  happened,  because  she  was 
flushed  and  had  a  wild  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  am  I  to  do?  "  she  said,  breathlessly.  "  The 
wine  hasn't  arrived!  I  sent  James  over  to  the 
station,  and  the  case  wasn't  there." 

"  James,"  I  said,  "  always  was  a  fool.  So  is  the 
station-master.  What  wine  were  you  expecting?" 

"  I  wrote  on  Monday  for  some  champagne.  I 
told  them  to  send  it  down  at  once.  It  ought  to  have 
been  here  this  morning." 

Then  my  conscience  smote  me.  I  had  taken  that 
letter  to  the  village  on  Monday  afternoon  in  my 
pocket,  and  had  forgotten  to  post  it.  It  was 
addressed  to  Messrs.  Jones,  Wilkinson  &  Co.,  who 
are  chiefly  grocers,  though  they  also  sell  wine.  We 
deal  with  them  for  tea,  sugar,  soap,  and  all  sorts  of 
other  things  which  can  be  had  cheaper  and  better 
in  London.  Letters  are  continually  going  to  them 
from  my  wife,  and  I  had  no  idea  that  this  one  con- 
tained anything  so  important  as  an  order  for  cham- 
pagne. My  face,  I  suppose,  betrayed  the  fact  that 
my  conscience  was  uneasy. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  posted  the  letter  ?  "  said 
my  wife. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      237 

"  Quite,"  I  said  firmly. 

Jones  and  Wilkinson  both  lived  in  London;  so, 
I  presume,  does  the  company  associated  with  them. 
London  is  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away  from 
us.  Jones  &  Wilkinson  would  therefore  suffer  very 
little  from  my  wife's  anger.  I  should  suffer  a  great 
deal.  It  was  better  for  them  to  bear  the  blame. 
Besides,  I  did  post  the  letter — on  Tuesday  morning. 

"  There'll  be  nothing  to  drink  at  dinner,"  she  said. 
I  felt  the  difficulty  and  did  my  best  to  minimize  it. 

"There's  whiskey,"  I  said,  "and  sherry.  Fulk- 
ington  drinks  whiskey,  I  know.  You  and  Mrs. 
Fulkington  can  manage  with  the  sherry." 

"  But  Gilbert ! " 

"  The  Colonel,"  I  said,  "  is  an  old  campaigner. 
He'll  rub  along  all  right.  I  dare  say  he  has  often 
been  glad  enough  to  get  water — in  South  Africa, 
you  know." 

"  I'll  telegraph  to  Jones  &  Wilkinson,"  said  my 
wife. 

"  That'll  be  no  use  now." 

"  It  will  let  them  know  what  I  think  of  them," 
she  said,  vindictively.  This  made  me  uneasy,  but 
not  seriously  uneasy.  Jones  &  Wilkinson  would 
probably  make  some  attempt  to  defend  their  reputa- 
tion for  promptitude  in  business  by  asserting  that 
they  did  not  receive  the  letter  till  Wednesday 
morning,  but  I  could,  in  the  last  resort,  lay  the 
blame  on  the  post-office. 

Our  dinner  went  off  very  well  in  spite  of  the  want 


238  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

of  champagne.  The  Colonel  frequently  addressed 
my  wife  as  Susannah,  which  impressed  the  Fulk- 
ingtons;  I  have  always  dropped  the  last  syllable 
of  her  name.  He  was  evidently  greatly  pleased  with 
his  new  appointment,  and  talked  a  good  deal  during 
dinner  about  the  prevention  and  the  detection  of 
crime.  After  the  ladies  left  us  he  explained  a 
scheme  he  had  devised  for  training  the  South 
Australian  detective  force.  Fulkington  and  I 
listened,  pretending  that  we  took  an  interest  in  the 
investigation  of  murders  and  robberies.  The 
Colonel  showed  himself  tremendously  enthusiastic 
about  his  new  duties. 

Next  morning  at  breakfast  I  opened  the  post-bag 
as  usual  and,  with  some  slight  misgiving,  handed 
my  wife  a  letter  from  Messrs.  Jones,  Wilkinson  & 
Co.  The  Colonel  was  helping  himself  to  fish  when 
she  opened  it  and  had  his  back  turned  to  us.  My 
wife  read  the  letter,  glanced  at  an  inclosure  which  it 
contained,  and  then  made  an  exclamation. 

"  This  isn't  my  envelope !  "  she  said. 

The  Colonel  turned  at  once.  Some  instinct  must 
have  led  him  to  expect  a  mysterious  crime.  His 
face  wore  that  look  of  keen  determination  which  is 
proper  to  an  eminent  detective.  I  glanced  through 
the  letter  of  Jones  &  Wilkinson.  It  was,  as  I  antici- 
pated, an  apology  and  an  excuse.  They  had  not,  so 
they  said,  received  the  order  until  Wednesday 
morning,  and  therefore  had  been  unable  to  despatch 
the  champagne  on  Tuesday.  As  a  proof  of  their 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      239 

statement  they  referred  my  wife  to  the  post-mark 
on  the  envelope,  which  they  inclosed. 

"  It's  not  my  envelope  at  all,"  said  my  wife,  "  and 
it's  not  my  writing." 

I  glanced  at  the  envelope  and  satisfied  myself  that 
it  was  blue,  whereas  all  our  envelopes  are  white. 
This  puzzled  me  a  good  deal.  I  understood  very 
well  how  it  happened  that  Jones  &  Wilkinson  had 
not  received  the  letter  until  Wednesday  morning. 
I  did  not  understand  how  it  came  to  arrive  in  a  blue 
envelope.  I  certainly  had  posted  it  in  a  white  one. 
Besides,  a  single  glance  at  the  writing  showed  me 
that  it  was  not  my  wife's.  I  had  no  time  for  more 
than  a  single  glance,  because  the  Colonel,  with  the 
promptitude  which  is  characteristic  of  all  great 
criminal  investigators,  pounced  on  it  and  carried  it 
over  to  the  window.  There  he  made  a  very  careful 
examination  of  it,  both  inside  and  out.  He  studied 
the  handwriting  minutely  with  the  help  of  a  small 
magnifying-glass  which  he  took  out  of  his  pocket. 
From  time  to  time  he  gave  us  the  results  of  his 
investigations  in  a  series  of  jerky  sentences : 

"Posted  here  August  8th.  Received,  London, 
August  9th.  Envelope,  azure  vellum.  Albert  size. 
Educated  female  handwriting.  Stephen's  Blue- 
Black  Ink.  Hurriedly  written.  Water-mark,  crown 
surmounted  by  cross.  Slightly  scented.  Soft  pen 
used." 

Then  he  turned  to  my  wife  and  questioned  her. 
She  did  not  want  to  tell  the  story  about  the  hurried 


240  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

order  for  champagne ;  but  she  told  it.  The  Colonel 
examined  and  cross-examined  her  with  the  utmost 
ferocity,  as  if  she  were  in  a  witness-box  and  sus- 
pected of  committing  perjury.  When  he  had 
got  all  he  could  out  of  her  he  attacked  me. 

I  stuck  firmly  to  my  original  statement  that  I  had 
posted  the  letter  on  Monday  afternoon.  I  saw 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  confessing  that  I  had  for- 
gotten all  about  it  until  Tuesday  morning.  My 
forgetfulness  would  not  explain  the  fact  that  the 
letter  had  changed  its  envelope  on  the  way  to 
London;  whereas  a  confession  would  certainly 
involve  me  in  unpleasantness.  The  Colonel  looked 
at  me  so  sternly  that  I  began  to  feel  quite  nervous. 
I  corroborated  my  statement  by  way  of  increasing 
his  confidence  in  my  truthfulness. 

"  I  recollect  the  circumstances  perfectly,"  I  said, 
"  because  Fulkington's  brown  dog  was  standing 
near  the  post-office  at  the  time  and  barked  at  me." 

"  A  brown  dog ! "  said  the  Colonel,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  has  come  upon  something  of  real 
importance. 

"  Yes,  an  Irish  terrier." 

"You're  certain  it  was  Fulkington's?" 

I  was,  of  course,  quite  certain  that  it  was  not; 
although  Fulkington  really  has  an  Irish  terrier. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  it  was  Fulkington's.  I  know  it 
because  it  has  only  one  ear.  The  other  got  bitten 
off  in  a  fight  with  a  sheep-dog.  Besides,  no  one 
else  in  the  neighbourhood  has  an  Irish  terrier." 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      241 

The  Colonel  sat  down  to  his  breakfast  and  fin- 
ished it  without  speaking.  Then  he  paced  the  gravel 
outside  the  hall  door  and  smoked  a  cigar.  I  could 
see  that  he  was  thinking  deeply.  I  ventured  after 
a  while  to  ask  him  if  he  had  got  any  clue  to  the 
mystery.  He  said  that  he  had  several,  and  intended 
to  follow  them  all  out  until  he  placed  the  criminal 
in  the  dock. 

At  eleven  o'clock  he  took  his  hat  and  walked 
down  toward  the  village.  At  half-past  twelve  he 
came  back,  looking  keener  and  more  determined 
than  ever.  He  summoned  me  into  my  own  study, 
and  when  he  got  me  inside  he  locked  the  door. 

"  I  think  it  right,"  he  said,  "  to  place  you  in 
possession  of  the  facts  so  far  as  I  have  arrived  at 
them." 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  I  said.  "  I'm  tremendously 
interested." 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,  the  envelope  in  which 
that  letter  arrived  in  London  was  not  bought  here. 
I  went  round  to  every  shop  in  the  village  and  made 
sure  that  no  such  envelopes  are  kept  for  sale.  The 
inference  from  that  is  obvious." 

"  Quite,"  I  said.  "  It  was  bought  somewhere 
else." 

The  Colonel  frowned.  "The  inference  I  am 
inclined  to  draw,"  he  said,  "  is  that  the  person  who 
opened  and  readdressed  the  letter  does  not  obtain 
stationery  at  the  local  shops." 

"  That,"  I  said,  "  seems  a  sound  deduction." 


242  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  It  narrows  the  field  of  inquiry." 

"  Your  idea,"  I  said,  "  is  that  some  one  got  hold 
of  my  wife's  letter  after  it  was  posted,  opened  it, 
put  it  in  another  envelope,  and  then  posted  it  again." 

"  That  is  plain  enough." 

"  But  why  should ?" 

"  The  motive  is  perfectly  obvious." 

"Is  it?" 

"  To  me  or  to  any  one  who  has  made  a  study  of 
criminal  investigation — quite  obvious.  The  letter 
was  addressed  to  a  shop,  and  might  be  supposed  to 
contain  a  postal  order." 

This  did  not  seem  to  me  perfectly  satisfactory. 
The  Colonel's  criminal,  having  successfully  cap- 
tured and  opened  the  letter,  ran  a  wholly  unneces- 
sary risk  in  forwarding  it  to  Jones  &  Wilkinson. 
Any  sensible  thief  would  have  burned  it.  I  found 
it  difficult  to  believe  that  a  man  capable  of  trying  to 
steal  a  postal  order  would  have  such  a  respect  for 
our  convenience  as  to  repost  the  letter  afterwards, 
particularly  as  he  would  be  in  a  bad  temper  after 
opening  it,  for  there  was  no  postal  order  inside.  I 
wanted  to  represent  all  this  to  the  Colonel,  but  he 
would  not  let  me. 

"  Don't  you  think ?"  I  began. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  the  Coloned.  "  There  is  no 
greater  mistake  than  thinking.  I  collect  facts. 
Once  the  facts  are  before  us  they  will  do  their  own 
thinking." 

"  Of  course  they  will ;  but  still " 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      243 

The  Colonel  waved  his  hand  at  me  and  said  that 
he  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  the  criminal  classes 
than  I  did.  This  was  true.  I  had  never  been  really 
intimate  with  a  criminal.  I  at  once  gave  up  my 
attempt  to  argue. 

"  I  called  at  the  post-office,"  the  Colonel  went  on, 
"  and  discovered  that  the  ink  used  there  is  not 
Stephen's  Blue-Black  Ink,  the  kind  with  which  the 
envelope  was  addressed.  I  also,  without  exciting 
suspicion  about  my  motive,  succeeded  in  seeing  the 
handwriting  of  the  postmaster  and  his  assistant. 
Neither  of  them  bears  any  resemblance  whatever 
to  that  on  the  envelope.  These  facts  point  neces- 
sarily to  certain  conclusions." 

"  I  suppose  they  do.  They  seem  to  me  to  make 
the  whole  thing  rather  more  confused ;  but  then  I'm 
not  a  detective." 

"  I  am." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me ?" 

"The  letter,"  said  the  Colonel,  "was  evidently 
taken  out  of  the  post-office  on  Monday  evening, 
opened,  and  readdressed  at  some  time  during  Mon- 
day night,  and  posted  again  on  Tuesday  morning, 
by  some  person  who  used  blue-black  ink,  bought 
stationery  at  a  distance,  and  wrote  the  hand  of  an 
educated  lady.  You  follow  me  so  far?" 

I  followed  him  perfectly,  although  I  knew  that  the 
letter  had  been  in  the  pocket  of  my  coat  all  Monday 
night,  and  that  the  first  part  of  the  Colonel's  state- 
ment was  entirely  wrong.  I  did  not,  however, 


244  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

attempt  to  correct  him.  We  should  not  have  been 
any  nearer  knowing  who  opened  the  letter  if  I,  at 
that  eleventh  hour,  had  confessed  my  share  in  the 
crime. 

"  Don't  keep  me  in  suspense,"  I  said.  "  Tell  me 
who  it  is  that  you  suspect." 

"  I  don't  suspect  any  one,"  he  said.  "  I  never 
allow  myself  to  entertain  suspicions.  Before  even- 
ing I  shall  know." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  study  door.  I  opened  it, 
and  the  parlourmaid  handed  me  a  letter,  explaining 
that  it  had  just  been  brought  by  Mr.  Fulkington's 
stable-boy.  Before  I  could  open  it  the  Colonel  took 
it  out  of  my  hand.  He  looked  at  it  carefully  and 
then  smiled  grimly. 

"  This,"  he  said,  "  helps  me  materially." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  can.  That  letter  comes  from 
Fulkington." 

The  Colonel  took  the  other  envelope,  the  one 
which  Messrs.  Jones  &  Wilkinson  had  sent  us,  from 
his  pocket  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  He  put  Fulking- 
ton's beside  it.  He  pointed  to  them  silently.  I  was 
forced  to  admit  that  they  were  very  much  alike. 
Then  the  Colonel  opened  Fulkington's  and  exam- 
ined the  water-mark. 

"  A  crown  surmounted  by  a  cross,"  he  said,  "  and 
addressed  in  blue-black  ink  with  a  soft  pen." 

"The  two  handwritings,"  I  said,  "are  entirely 
different." 

The    Colonel    took   no    notice    of   this    remark. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      245 

"  These  two  envelopes,"  he  said,  tapping  them  turn 
about  with  his  forefinger,  "came  from  the  same 
house.  We  have  not  very  far  to  go  now  to  find 
the  criminal.  What  you  told  me  this  morning  about 
Fulkington's  brown  dog  fits  in  exactly  with  the 
evidence  afforded  by  the  envelopes  themselves." 

I  was  sorry  then  that  I  had  mentioned  the  brown 
dog.  It  seemed  to  me  at  the  time  to  be  a  harmless 
piece  of  corroborative  evidence.  If  I  had  thought 
it  would  still  further  confuse  a  troublesome  inquiry 
I  should  not  have  said  anything  about  it. 

"  We  may  presume,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  that  the 
dog  did  not  walk  to  the  post-office  by  itself.  It  was 
led  there  by  some  one — by  some  one  whom  you 
did  not  see." 

"It's  perfectly  absurd,"  I  said,  "to  suppose,  as 
you  apparently  do,  that  Fulkington  would  hide 
behind  the  post-office  door  when  he  saw  me  coming 
in  order  to  purloin  a  letter  for  the  sake  of  a  paltry 
postal  order.  I've  known  him  for  twenty  years  and 
more,  and,  though  he  has  his  faults,  he  wouldn't  do 
a  thing  like  that.  Besides,  there  wasn't  a  postal 
order  in  the  letter.  We  deal  regularly  with  Jones 
&  Wilkinson  and  have  an  account  there.  Your 


suspicions 

The  Colonel  smiled  in  a  very  lofty  and  superior 
way.  "  I  suspect  no  one,"  he  said,  speaking  in  a 
tone  which  made  me  feel  that  Fulkington  would  be 
lucky  if  he  got  off  with  five  years'  penal  servitude. 

Still  smiling  at  me,  the  Colonel  took  his  hat  and 


246  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

went  out.  He  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  village, 
intending,  I  suppose,  to  collect  more  facts.  I  won- 
dered whether  he  would  find  out  that  Fulkington's 
brown  dog  was  at  home  in  its  kennel  on  Monday 
afternoon. 

After  watching  him  off  the  premises,  I  went  to 
look  for  my  wife.  I  found  her  very  busy  over  the 
bodice  of  a  dress  which  she  had  not  worn  for  a  long 
time.  She  explained  to  me  that  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  make  some  alterations  in  the  garment 
in  order  to  meet  the  requirements  of  the  present 
fashion.  She  intended  to  wear  it  that  night  at  the 
Fulkington's  dinner-party. 

"  I  can't  go,"  she  said,  "  in  the  same  gown  that  I 
wore  last  night." 

"  It's  very  doubtful,"  I  said,  "  whether  you'll  go 
to  the  Fulkingtons*  at  all." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  We've  promised 
to  go." 

"  The  Colonel,"  I  said,  "  has  gone  out  to  arrest 
poor  Fulkington  on  the  charge  of  stealing  that  letter 
of  yours." 

"  Do  try  to  talk  sense.    The  letter  wasn't  stolen." 

"  It  was  opened  and  put  into  another  envelope — 
an  envelope  of  a  most  uncommon  kind  not  procur- 
able in  this  neighbourhood  and  only  used  by  Fulk- 
ington." 

"I  wish,"  said  my  wife,  "that  you'd  all  stop 
fussing  about  that  letter.  The  champagne  arrived 
this  morning.  They  only  sent  three  bottles  instead 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      247 

of  six,  and  it  was  a  different  kind,  not  what  I 
ordered;  but  that  doesn't  matter  now.  Gilbert  is 
going  away  to-morrow  morning,  so  we  shan't 
want  it." 

"  He  may  or  may  not  go,"  I  said.  "  If  he  arrests 
Fulkington  this  afternoon,  he  will.  But  if  Fulking- 
ton  is  out  when  he  calls,  he'll  have  to  wait  till 
to-morrow.  He'll  hardly  put  handcuffs  on  him  at 
his  own  dinner-table." 

My  wife  failed  altogether  to  realize  the  critical 
position  of  poor  Fulkington.  She  refused  to  discuss 
the  matter  further,  and  insisted  on  my  leaving  the 
room.  She  said  that  she  had  little  enough  time  for 
bringing  the  dress  up  to  date,  and  that  if  I  inter- 
rupted her  work  any  more  she  would  not  be  able  to 
get  it  done. 

The  Colonel  returned  from  his  second  expedition 
about  five  o'clock.  He  seemed  to  be  very  well 
satisfied  with  himself,  and  I  was  most  anxious  to 
hear  what  he  had  done.  He  had  been  out  at 
luncheon-time  and  was  evidently  very  hungry,  so 
I  waited  until  he  had  drunk  three  cups  of  tea  and 
eaten  nearly  half  of  a  cake.  Then  I  asked  him 
whether  he  had  collected  much  fresh  evidence. 

"  I  have,"  he  said,  "  entirely  satisfied  myself,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  that  I  shall  be  able  to  satisfy  any 
reasonable  jury." 

"Then  you  haven't  actually  arrested ?" 

"  No.  Not  yet.  We  are,  as  I  understand,  to  dine 
with  the  Fulkingtons  to-night.  I  shall  do  nothing 


248  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

until  after  that,  and  I  must  request  you  not  to  ask 
me  questions  until  then.  The  case  is  more  compli- 
cated than  I  supposed,  and  I  wish  to  say  nothing 
until  I  have  had  a  talk  with  Fulkington." 

My  wife  had  evidently  been  impressed  by  what  I 
said  to  her  during  the  afternoon,  although  she  had 
pretended  at  the  time  to  think  that  I  was  talking 
nonsense.  She  told  the  Colonel  respectfully  but 
quite  plainly  that  she  did  not  believe  that  Fulk- 
ington himself  could  possibly  be  guilty.  The 
Colonel  merely  smiled.  He  did  not  even  remind  her 
that  he  knew  more  about  the  criminal  classes  than 
she  did. 

The  Fulkingtons  gave  us  a  good  dinner — a  better 
dinner  than  I  ever  ate  in  their  house  on  any  other 
occasion.  They  had  champagne.  This,  I  could  see, 
vexed  my  wife;  but  the  excellence  of  the  dinner 
saved  her  from  actually  losing  her  temper.  The 
unusual  splendour  was  a  tribute  to  the  eminence  of 
the  Colonel,  and  nothing  pleases  her  more  than  an 
appreciation  of  the  greatness  of  her  family. 

After  dinner  the  Colonel  opened  the  subject  of 
the  mysterious  envelope.  He  did  so  in  an  oblique 
way  which  at  first  greatly  puzzled  me. 

"  You  have  in  your  service,"  he  said  to  Fulking- 
ton, "a  young  woman  called  Long — Annie  Long." 

Fulkington  seemed  a  little  surprised  at  this  state- 
ment. He  admitted  that  his  housemaid  was  called 
Annie,  but  said  he  would  have  to  inquire  from  Mrs. 
Fulkington  whether  her  surname  was  Long. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      249 

"  It  is  Long,"  said  the  Colonel,  decisively,  "  and 
she  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  young  man  called 
George  Crab." 

"  I  have  never  heard  of  him  before,"  said  Fulk- 
ington,  "but  it's  no  affair  of  mine  if  she  is.  I 
suppose  she'll  give  us  the  usual  month's  notice." 

"  George  Crab,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  is  the  assistant 
in  the  local  post-office.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
allow  me  to  see  a  specimen  of  Annie  Long's  hand- 
writing?" 

This  request  not  unnaturally  irritated  Fulkington ; 
he  said  he  had  never  seen  Annie  Long's  handwriting 
in  his  life,  and  did  not  want  to.  I  tried  to  soothe 
him. 

"  The  Colonel,"  I  said,  "  doesn't  mean  to  suggest 
that  you  are  carrying  on  a  clandestine  correspond- 
ence with  your  own  housemaid  behind  the  backs  of 
George  Crab  and  Mrs.  Fulkington.  He  knows 
you're  not  that  kind  of  man.  You'll  find  out,  if 
you're  patient,  that  he  has  some  quite  different 
reason  for  wanting  to  see  the  girl's  writing." 

"  Anyhow,  I  haven't  got  any  of  her  writing,"  said 
Fulkington. 

"  Annie  Long,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  would  naturally 
have  access  to  your  stationery  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Fulkington. 
I  intervened  again  in  the  interests  of  peace. 

"  What  the  Colonel  means,"  I  said,  "  is  that  she 
could  take  one  of  your  envelopes  if  she  wanted  to 


250  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

send  a  letter — say,  to  George  Crab.  She  is  sure  to 
write  frequently  to  George  Crab." 

"  Of  course  she  could  take  an  envelope.  So  could 
any  one  else  in  the  house." 

"  The  case  against  the  girl  Long  and  her  asso- 
ciate," said  the  Colonel,  "  is  perfectly  plain.  On  the 
evening  of  Monday  last,  August  7th,  a  letter 
addressed  to  a  business  firm,  and  therefore  likely  to 
contain  a  postal  order,  was  taken  out  of  the  letter- 
box in  the  local  post-office.  It  was  opened,  clumsily 
we  may  presume,  perhaps  hurriedly,  through  fear 
of  detection.  It  was  afterwards  enclosed  in  a  fresh 
envelope,  readdressed,  and  posted  again  on  Tues- 
day, August  8th.  Only  two  persons  had  access  to 
the  letters  in  the  post-office — the  postmaster  and 
George  Crab.  Neither  of  them  addressed  the 
envelope  in  which  the  letter  was  ultimately  placed, 
for  the  writing  in  that  envelope  is  a  woman's,  and 
the  ink  is  not  that  used  in  the  post-office.  The 
envelope  is  of  a  kind  not  obtainable  in  the  locality, 
but  used  in  your  house  and  accessible  to  your 
servants.  It  seems  to  me  obvious  that  the  letter 
was  taken  and  opened  by  George  Crab,  who, 
intending  to  marry  Annie  Long,  was  naturally 
anxious  to  secure  some  little  money  for  the  expenses 
of  his  wedding.  Finding  himself  unable  to  close 
the  original  envelope,  he  brought  the  letter  out  of 
the  office  and  induced  Annie  Long  to  address  one 
of  your  envelopes  to  the  London  firm.  In  it  he 
enclosed  the  letter  and  posted  it  on  Tuesday  morn- 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ENVELOPE      251 

ing.  I  made  careful  inquiries  in  the  village  this 
afternoon,  and  there  is  unfortunately  no  doubt  that 
the  prisoner — I  mean  to  say  George  Crab — is  on 
terms  of  closest  intimacy  with  Annie  Long." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  said  Fulkington,  "  what  an 
extraordinary  story ! " 

"  An  instance,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  quite  a  simple 
instance,  of  the  way  we  detectives  go  to  work." 

"  But— but " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  you'd  like  to 
inspect  the  envelope  and  judge  for  yourself." 

He  produced  the  incriminating  paper  from  his 
coat  pocket  and  handed  it  to  Fulkington,  who  stared 
at  it  for  a  minute  in  silence.  Then  a  look  of 
bewilderment  passed  over  his  face. 

"  That's  my  wife's  envelope,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Quite  so.  Yours  or  your  wife's.  It's  the  same 
thing." 

"  But  she  addressed  it,"  said  Fulkington.  "  It's 
her  writing." 

"  A  clever  imitation  perhaps." 

"  Imitation  be  hanged !  I  posted  it  myself  on 
Tuesday  afternoon.  The  fact  is,"  Fulkington  went 
on,  addressing  me,  "  that  when  we  knew  the  Colonel 
was  to  dine  here  to-night  we  wrote  to  Jones  & 
Wilkinson  to  send  down  some  champagne.  By  the 
way,  they  sent  the  wrong  brand,  and  six  bottles 
instead  of  three." 

The  Colonel  is  a  determined  man.     He  was  not 


252  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

prepared  to  allow  the  structure  he  had  reared  with 
such  pains  to  crumble  before  his  eyes. 

"  You'll  find,"  he  said,  "  that  I'm  right.  How  else 
are  we  to  explain  the  changed  envelope  of  the  other 
letter?" 

Next  morning  the  explanation  he  wished  for,  or 
more  probably  did  not  wish  for,  offered  itself. 
Jones,  Wilkinson  &  Co.  wrote  a  long  and  very 
apologetic  letter  to  my  wife.  They  explained  that 
the  two  letters,  arriving  as  they  did  from  the  same 
neighbourhood  and  by  the  same  post,  and  being 
both  orders  for  champagne,  had  got  mixed  by  their 
clerk.  He  had  sent  Mrs.  Fulkington's  envelope  to 
my  wife.  The  firm  sincerely  hoped  that  no  incon- 
venience had  been  caused. 

No  inconvenience  had  been  caused  to  any  one 
except  the  Colonel.  George  Crab  and  Annie  Long 
had  a  narrow  escape  from  penal  servitude.  My  own 
share  in  the  mystery  never  came  to  light.  The 
mistake  of  Jones,  Wilkinson  &  Co.'s  clerk  drew 
away  attention  from  the  fact,  in  itself  suspicious, 
that  my  wife's  letter  did  not  arrive  in  London  until 
Wednesday  morning.  This  was  very  fortunate  for 
me.  The  Colonel's  temper  was  so  bad  when  he 
found  out  that  he  had  been  wasting  his  time  and 
talents  that  I  am  sure  he  would  have  indicted  me 
for  criminal  conspiracy  if  he  had  found  out  that  I 
forgot  to  post  that  letter. 


XVII.— THE  VIOLINIST 

IT  WAS  my  sister  who  arranged  that  I  should 
escort  Mrs.  Curtis  and  her  daughter  to  Venice. 
I  did  not  want  to  go  there,  and  I  had  the  strongest 
possible  objection  to  going  there  with  two  American 
ladies  whom  I  did  not  know;  but  when  Edith 
settled  the  matter  I  gave  in.  Edith  had  always 
managed  me.  If  she  had  proposed  the  whole  plan 
at  once,  I  might  have  resisted  her;  but  she  took 
me,  so  to  speak,  by  easy  stages,  letting  me  in  for 
the  expedition  first,  and  then,  when  I  was  committed 
to  that,  springing  the  Americans  on  me. 

Young  Reinhardt,  of  Reinhardt  and  Golding, 
publishers,  met  me  in  the  club  one  day  and  asked 
me  to  write  the  letter-press  of  one  of  his  new  series 
of  illustrated  guide-books.  He  offered  me  a  hundred 
pounds  and  explained  exactly  what  he  wanted. 

"  Not  a  revised  Baedeker,"  he  said,  "  but  a  volume 
of  chatty  essays."  Venice,  it  appeared,  was  the 
place  I  was  to  chat  about.  "  You  know  the  sort  of 
thing  I  mean,"  he  went  on.  "  *  Evening  Hours  in 
St.  Mark's/  '  Morning  Strolls  Among  the  Gon- 
dolas.' " 

"  You  can't  stroll  among  the  gondolas,"  I  said. 
"  But  I  think  I  understand." 

My  idea  was  to  write  the  book  comfortably  in 

253 


254  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

London.  There  was  not  the  slightest  necessity  for 
me  to  go  to  Venice.  I  had  been  there  twice,  and 
could  buy  a  guide-book  of  the  orthodox  kind  so  as 
to  get  my  facts  right.  It  was  Edith  who  put  a  stop 
to  that  plan.  She  said  it  would  not  be  honest  to 
write  the  book  without  making  a  special  expedition 
to  the  place.  It  surprised  me  to  hear  her  say  this, 
for  Edith  is  not  usually  strong  on  the  ethics  of 
authorship.  She  regards  the  writing  of  books  as  a 
trade,  not  an  art. 

"  No  great  book,"  she  said,  "  can  be  written 
without  serious  effort.  What  you  must  do  is  to 
steep  yourself  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  place, 
wander  day  after  day  through  the  palaces  of  the  old 
nobility,  brood  over  the  traces  of  the  glorious  past, 
and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said.  "  If  you  think  I  ought  to,  I 
will,  but  you  can't  make  a  guide-book  literature,  no 
matter  what  you  soak  yourself  in.  And  there  won't 
be  much  of  Reinhardt's  hundred  left  when  I've 
done." 

"  The  Curtises,"  said  Edith  casually  about  an 
hour  later,  "  are  going  to  Venice  next  week." 

"  I  start  to-morrow,"  I  said.  "  Otherwise  I 
should,  of  course,  have  liked  to  travel  with  them." 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,"  said  Edith.  "  Next  week 
will  suit  you  quite  as  well,  and  Mrs.  Curtis  told  me 
that  she  always  liked  to  have  a  man  to  travel  with. 
Besides,  Bessie  is  an  extremely  nice  girl." 

"  I  haven't  met  her,"  I  said,  "  but  I  remember 


THE  VIOLINIST  255 

your  telling  me  that  she'd  make  an  excellent  wife 
for  a  literary  man." 

"  So  she  would.  She  has  a  very  nice  little  fortune. 
The  father  wasn't  vulgarly  rich,  but  he  was  comfort- 
able. Mrs.  Curtis  is  doing  Europe  to  complete 
Bessie's  education.  Pictures  and  statues,  you  know, 
and  architecture  and  old  furniture — just  what  a 
literary  man  wants  in  a  wife." 

"I'm  not  really  literary,"  I  said.  "After  all, 
guide-books  don't  appeal  to  the  cultured  minority." 

I  do  not  know  what  other  literary  men  want  in 
their  wives,  but  I  am  quite  clear  that  I  do  not  want 
a  veneer  of  Italian  art  glued  over  a  solid  structure 
of  American  dollars.  The  Curtises  are  Edith's  latest 
friends.  She  had  only  known  them  about  a  week 
when  she  discovered  that  Bessie  was  just  the  wife 
for  me.  This,  and  all  Edith  told  me  about  her, 
prejudiced  me  against  the  girl.  I  successfully 
avoided  meeting  the  Curtises  by  refusing  all  Edith's 
invitations  for  two  months;  but,  of  course,  I  had 
to  meet  them  in  the  end.  I  did,  on  the  way  to 
Venice. 

I  did  not  see  anything  of  them  between  London 
and  Dover.  I  put  them  into  one  compartment  and 
travelled  in  another  myself  on  the  plea  of  wanting 
to  smoke.  I  had  no  chance  of  talking  to  them  on 
the  steamer.  I  was  frankly  seasick.  Mrs.  Curtis 
was  what  she  called  "  uncomfortable."  Bessie 
lunched  on  board  and  afterward  appreciated  the 
beauty  of  the  sea  rather  unsympathetically. 


256  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

It  was  in  the  train  between  Calais  and  Paris  that 
I  began  to  know  Mrs.  Curtis.  My  acquaintance 
with  Bessie  ripened  later.  Mrs.  Curtis,  I  discovered, 
is  one  of  those  people  who  can  not  travel  in  a 
railway  carriage  unless  the  window  is  open.  She  is 
also  the  kind  of  person  who  always  secures  a  corner 
seat  with  her  back  to  the  engine.  Open  windows 
do  no  harm  to  any  one  in  that  position.  I  had  to  sit 
with  my  face  to  the  engine,  and  I  had  a  stiff  neck 
before  we  had  travelled  for  an  hour.  Also  my 
hands,  face,  and  collar  were  black  with  smuts. 
Bessie  sat  beside  her  mother  and  slept  profoundly. 

We  dined  in  Paris  and  afterward  got  our  berths 
in  the  sleeping  car.  I  was  earning  a  hundred  pounds 
by  my  excursion,  so  I  felt  entitled  to  such  comfort 
as  a  wagon-lits  affords.  Bessie's  berth  was  paid  for, 
I  suppose,  out  of  her  "nice  little  fortune."  But  the 
charges  of  the  International  Sleeping  Car  Company 
are  high,  and  Bessie's  fortune  will  not  last  long  if 
she  squanders  it  in  this  fashion,  unless,  indeed,  it 
is  much  larger  than  Edith  seems  to  think.  With 
Mrs.  Curtis's  financial  position  I  was  not  concerned. 
There  was  no  question  of  my  marrying  her.  But  I 
hoped  that  the  berths  in  her  compartment  would  be 
behind  the  window.  If  they  were,  and  if,  as  I 
expected,  she  occupied  the  lower  one,  she  would 
have  as  many  smuts  as  she  wanted  all  over  her  body 
before  morning,  and  perhaps  a  bad  cold. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  sleeping-car 
attendant  wakened  me  to  give  me  some  coffee — the 


THE  VIOLINIST 

kind  of  coffee  which  is  sold  at  unhallowed  hours  on 
the  platforms  of  French  railway  stations.  It  comes 
to  the  consumer  in  large  white  bowls,  and  has  quan- 
tities of  sugar  in  it.  I  took  my  bowl  gratefully,  and 
heard  the  attendant  knocking  at  the  door  of  the 
next  compartment,  that  in  which  the  Curtises  were. 
They,  too,  took  the  coffee,  thankful  at  first,  but  a 
minute  later  there  was  a  row.  Mrs.  Curtis  opened 
her  door. 

"  Man,  man,"  she  called. 

Then,  remembering  that  she  was  in  France,  she 
called  "  Gargon  I  gargon ! "  This  apparently 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  attendants,  for  she 
went  on: 

"  Jamais,  jamais,  I  never  take  sugar  in  my  cafe. 
Jamais,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

It  is  the  boast  of  the  International  Sleeping  Car 
Company  that  its  attendants  speak  all  ordinary 
languages.  But  Mrs.  Curtis  tried  our  man  too  high. 
By  way  of  making  things  easier  for  him  she  pro- 
nounced her  English  with  an  elaborate  French 
accent,  saying  "  nevair "  and  "  soogar."  This 
puzzled  the  man,  and  Bessie  came  to  her  mother's 
rescue.  I  could  hear  her  plainly  because  she  spoke 
distinctly  and  very  clearly. 

"Madame  ma   mere,"   she   said,   " ne  prend  pas 
sucre  dans  son — no,  sa,  no,  son — anyhow,  dans  cafe." 
I  had  gathered  that  Bessie's  education  was  com- 
plete except  for  the  finishing  touches  to  be  supplied 
by  Italian  art ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  might 


258  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

with  advantage  spend  a  year  or  two  more  at  French. 
I  felt  it  my  duty  to  interfere.  I  am  not  a  good 
linguist,  but  I  felt  tolerably  confident  that  the  man 
would  understand  English  if  I  spoke  it  in  a  natural 
way.  I  opened  my  door  and  put  out  my  head.  The 
attendant  was  standing  in  the  corridor  in  his  neat 
brown  uniform.  Bessie,  in  a  pale-blue  dressing- 
gown,  with  her  hair  in  a  long  pig-tail,  was  also  in 
the  corridor,  pushing  a  bowl  of  coffee  into  the  man's 
hands. 

"  Cafe  sans  aucun  sucre"  she  said.  "  Sans  aucun 
du  tout." 

My  impulse  was  to  withdraw,  but  Bessie  saw  me 
and  appealed  to  me  for  help  in  her  struggle  with  the 
dense  stupidity  of  a  man  who  could  not  understand 
either  English  or  French.  I  did  not  venture  to  go 
out,  because  I  had  no  dressing-gown,  only  a  suit  of 
pyjamas;  but  I  told  the  man  that  Mrs.  Curtis 
wanted  coffee  without  sugar.  He  explained  quite 
intelligibly  in  English  that  coffee  without  sugar  was 
unobtainable  at  that  station. 

"  What  nonsense !  "  she  said.  "  Of  course  it  can 
begot!" 

She  walked  down  the  corridor  and  disappeared 
through  the  door  at  the  end  of  it.  I  could  not  see 
what  happened  after  that,  and  I  do  not  know 
whether  Bessie  actually  descended  to  the  platform 
or  contended  herself  with  addressing  the  coffee 
vendor  from  the  steps  of  the  sleeping-car;  but  the 
train  was  ten  minutes  late  leaving  that  station,  and 


THE  VIOLINIST  259 

just  as  it  began  to  move  Bessie  came  along  the 
corridor  again  with  a  fresh  bowl  of  coffee.  She  told 
me  as  she  passed  that  there  was  very  little,  if  any, 
sugar  in  it. 

I  began  to  think  that  Edith  was  right  in  saying 
that  Bessie  would  make  a  good  wife  for  a  literary 
man.  Young  Reinhardt  would  not  have  got  his 
"  Chatty  Strolls  Among  Gondolas  "  for  a  hundred 
pounds  from  her  husband.  He  would  have  had  to 
pay  two  hundred  at  least.  A  girl  who  would  face 
the  crowd  on  a  French  railway  platform  in  a  blue 
dressing-gown  and  drag  sugarless  coffee  from 
unwilling  men  to  whom  she  could  not  speak,  all 
for  the  sake  of  an  unattractive  mother,  would  defeat 
any  publisher  living  if  she  were  fighting  the  battles 
of  a  husband  whom  she  really  loved. 

We  had  not  further  adventures  until  after  we  left 
Milan.  A  restaurant  car  was  hooked  on  to  our  train 
at  that  city,  and  I  conducted  my  two  ladies  into  it 
at  about  twelve  o'clock.  Mrs.  Curtis  at  once  asked 
me  to  open  the  window.  Now  the  engineer  of  the 
International  Company  which  owns  the  restaurant 
cars  has  succeeded  in  inventing  a  window  which  is 
more  difficult  than  any  other  in  the  world  to  open. 
I  struggled  with  it  in  vain,  succeeding  only  in  get- 
ting my  hands  disgustingly  dirty.  When  I  gave  up, 
bruised  and  dispirited,  Bessie  opened  it. 

A  few  minues  afterward  the  waiter  came  upon  us 
and  shut  it  with  a  bang.  A  German  who  sat  at  the 
next  table  had  sent  the  waiter  to  do  this.  I  saw 


260  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

him  giving  his  order  to  the  man.  So  did  Mrs.  Curtis. 
She  made  some  very  scathing  remarks  about  Ger- 
mans, in  a  loud  tone,  and  I  could  see  Bessie's  eyes 
flashing.  I  privately  sympathised  with  the  German, 
because  my  table  napkin  had  been  blown  away 
during  the  short  time  the  window  was  open. 

I  explained  to  Mrs.  Curtis  that  the  Italian  law 
forbade  the  opening  of  railway  carriage  windows, 
and  that  the  penalty  attached  to  the  offence  is  very 
severe.  This  may  be  true.  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  is  or  not.  It  was  certainly  necessary  to  say  some- 
thing of  the  kind.  Bessie  fully  intended  to  open  the 
window  again,  and  if  I  had  not  stopped  her  there 
would  have  been  a  row  with  the  German. 

When  lunch  was  over  the  German  lit  a  cigar. 
Bessie's  eyes  flashed  again.  She  had  no  objection 
whatever  to  the  smell  of  tobacco,  indeed  she  smokes 
herself ;  but  she  had  caught  sight  of  a  notice  printed 
over  the  door  of  the  car,  &  Vietato  Fumare." 
"  Fumare  "  obviously  meant  "  to  smoke  " ;  "  e  "  was 
a  very  small  word  not  likely  to  matter  one  way  or 
the  other.  Bessie  took  out  a  pocket  dictionary  and 
looked  out  "vietato."  She  found,  as  I  expected  she 
would,  that  it  meant  "  forbidden." 

Now  any  one  who  is  accustomed  to  the  restaurant 
cars  in  Italy  knows  that  this  notice  is  put  up  only 
as  an  ornament.  Every  one  smokes  as  much  and  as 
often  as  desirable.  But  Bessie  saw  her  opportunity. 
She  beckoned  to  the  waiter,  directed  his  attention 
first  to  the  notice  and  then  to  the  German's  cigar. 


THE  VIOLINIST  261 

She  demanded  in  unmistakable  pantomime  that  the 
German  should  at  once  be  compelled  to  quench  his 
cigar  in  his  coffee.  The  waiter  delivered  the 
message. 

The  German,  his  cigar  in  his  mouth,  turned  round 
and  stared  in  astonishment  at  Bessie.  He  had,  I 
must  say,  an  offensive  kind  of  face ;  and  he  deliber- 
ately puffed  at  his  cigar  in  a  way  that  I  can  only 
call  insulting.  Bessie  did  not  hesitate  for  a  second. 
She  opened  the  window  to  its  fullest  extent.  The 
train  was  going  at  a  high  speed  and  the  inrush  of  air 
felt  like  a  gale.  I  clung  to  our  table-cloth  and  tried 
to  rescue  my  wine-glass,  which  was  blown  away. 
When  I  looked  round  the  German  was  in  full  flight 
from  the  car,  pursued  by  the  waiter  with  the  bill 
for  his  luncheon. 

Edith  was  certainly  right  about  Bessie.  German 
tourists  are  not  the  only  enemies  of  the  human  race. 
I  know  editors  who  return  manuscripts  much  better 
and  in  every  way  more  suitable  for  publication  than 
those  which  they  print.  A  literary  man  with  a  wife 
like  Bessie  would,  I  think,  have  his  revenge  every 
time.  The  ingenuity  of  Bessie's  plan  and  the  prompt 
vigour  with  which  she  had  carried  it  out  filled  me 
with  admiration. 

The  Curtises  stayed  in  my  hotel  in  Venice;  so, 
oddly  enough,  did  the  German  whom  Bessie  had 
defeated  in  the  train.  We  saw  him  at  dinner  on  the 
evening  of  our  arrival,  and  Bessie  nodded  to  him  in 
the  friendliest  way.  She  bore  him  no  malice  at  all 


262  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

on  account  of  the  way  she  had  treated  him ;  which 
convinced  me  that  she  was  a  young  woman  of 
magnanimous  spirit.  It  is  very  hard  to  feel  kindly 
toward  any  one  whom  you  have  misused. 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Curtis  invited  me  to  join  her 
and  Bessie  in  making  a  tour  of  the  city.  She  pro- 
posed, she  said,  to  do  St.  Mark's  and  the  Doge's 
Palace  before  lunch.  I  declined,  for  several  reasons. 
Edith  had  said  I  was  to  soak  myself  in  the  Venetian 
spirit.  I  should  not  succeed  in  more  than  damping 
my  skin  if  I  did  St.  Mark's  and  the  Doge's  Palace 
in  three  hours ;  and  I  did  not  want  to  go  to  prison 
for  acquiescing  in  the  methods  which  Bessie  would 
adopt  to  get  windows  open  for  her  mother.  She 
might  be  reduced  to  breaking  them,  and  it  really  is 
a  criminal  offence  to  break  stained  glass  in  a 
cathedral.  These  were  my  real  reasons  for  refusing 
Mrs.  Curtis's  invitation. 

What  I  told  her  was  that  I  must  begin  writing  my 
book  at  once  because  young  Reinhardt  was  clamour- 
ing for  it.  In  order  to  convince  her  that  this  was 
true  I  went  up  to  my  bedroom  and  brought  down  a 
quantity  of  paper  and  two  pens.  Then  I  settled 
myself  at  a  writing-table  in  a  corner  of  what  our 
landlord  calls  the  winter  garden  of  our  hotel.  Mrs. 
Curtis  and  Bessie  went  off  in  a  gondola.  I  saw  them 
sail  away  and  heard  Bessie  urging  on  the  gondolier 
in  good  Italian. 

"  Allegro"  she  said.  "  Con  molto  spirito !  Viv- 
ace \  Fortissimo  \ " 


THE  VIOLINIST  263 

Her  music,  I  thought,  must  be  better  than  her 
French. 

I  went  peaceably  to  sleep.  Women  are  different ; 
but  a  man  requires  some  sleep  after .  travelling 
straight  through  from  London  to  Venice.  Besides, 
I  had  promised  Edith  that  I  would  soak  myself  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  place.  I  was  wakened  at 
eleven  o'clock  by  the  sound  of  the  piano.  There 
was  a  grand  piano  in  the  corner  of  the  winter 
garden,  and  our  German  enemy  was  playing  at  it, 
hard. 

It  is  possible,  as  I  have  often  proved  at  concerts, 
to  sleep  through  almost  any  kind  of  music.  I  did 
a  little  musical  criticism  at  one  time  and  had  some 
experience  even  of  orchestras.  If  only  the  music 
retains  its  character  it  is  no  real  bar  to  sleep.  Soft 
music  is,  of  course,  actually  soothing.  Dances  and 
marches  weave  themselves  into  agreeable  dreams. 
Even  the  works  of  the  most  passionate  modern 
composers  do  not  disturb  me  so  long  as  they  are 
fairly  consistent. 

But  this  German  played  music  of  the  most 
variable  kind.  I  should  not  have  complained  if  it 
had  varied  merely  by  being  sometimes  loud  and 
sometimes  soft.  That  one  expects.  But  he  wan- 
dered from  Brahms  to  Wagner;  gave  me  scraps  of 
Chopin  and  little  bits  of  Mozart.  Occasionally  he 
emitted  a  few  phrases  of  what  promised  to  be  a 
tune,  and  then,  just  as  I  was  getting  hold  of  it,  he 


264  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

shattered  it  with  a  series  of  violent  chords.  Sleep 
became  totally  impossible. 

I  composed,  with  great  care,  a  very  polite  German 
sentence  in  which  I  asked  him  to  put  off  his  per- 
formance until  the  afternoon,  because  I  was  writing 
a  book.  I  went  over  to  the  piano  and  recited  it  to 
him.  I  began,  I  remember,  "Verehrlich  Herr 
Professor,"  which  ought  to  have  softened  any  one's 
heart.  It  means,  or  was  supposed  to  mean,  "  Most 
honourable  Mr.  Professor,"  and  all  Germans  look 
up  to  professors. 

He  looked  at  me  malevolently.  "  I  should,"  he 
said,  "  much  more  easily  and  with  less  mental  effort 
understand,  if  you  in  your  own  tongue  speak.  I 
have  the  English  language  fluently  and  idiomatically 
acquired." 

I  felt  less  inclined  to  be  polite  after  that,  but  I 
kept  my  temper.  "  If  you  know  English,"  I  said — 
"  and  of  course  I  take  your  word  for  it — I  shall  try 
to  make  it  plain  to  you  that  I  am  writing  a  book,  a 
very  important  book,  on  Venetian  Art,  and  I  find  it 
difficult  to  concentrate  my  thoughts  on  Paul  Vero- 
nese while  you  are  performing  selections  from  the 
works  of  eminent  musicians.  I  should  be  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  very  much  indeed,  if  you'd " 

"  In  playing  the  piano,"  he  said,  "  in  a  public 
room  of  the  hotel,  I  am  my  legitimate  right  well 
within." 

"  I  know  that,"  I  said.  "  I'm  not  disputing  your 
legal  right  to  play.  I  know  I  can't  force  you  to 


THE  VIOLINIST  265 

stop.  I  was  appealing  to  your  sense  of  courtesy. 
As  a  professor  you  must  be  able  to  appreciate  the 
feelings  of  a  literary  man,  and  ordinary  courtesy 
will  suggest  to  you " 

"Courtesy,"  he  said.    "What  is  that?" 

I  saw  that  there  was  no  use  arguing  with  him  any 
more.  I  went  back  to  my  corner.  I  felt  that  since 
I  could  not  possibly  sleep  I  might  as  well  write  a 
few  pages  of  the  guide-book  for  Reinhardt.  I 
thought  of  beginning  with  a  chapter  on  tourists  of 
other  nationalities.  Before  I  had  written  a  word 
Bessie  Curtis  came  in.  She  smiled  at  the  German, 
who  was  working  through  the  first  movement  of 
the  Waldstein  Sonata,  and  then  came  over  to  me. 

"  Mother,"  she  shouted,  "  has  been  obliged  to  go 
to  her  room  and  lie  down."  She  had  to  shout  on 
account  of  the  Waldstein. 

"  Headache,  I  suppose?"  I  yelled. 

Bessie  nodded.  The  German  turned  his  attention 
suddenly  to  a  nocturne  of  Chopin's.  I  was  able  to 
speak  in  an  ordinary  voice. 

"  Brought  on,  I  suppose,  by  the  airless  condition 
of  the  Doge's  Palace?" 

"  Not  a  window  in  the  whole  place  that  I  could 
get  open.  Wouldn't  it  be  rather  nice  now,  as  she 
has  broken  down,  if  you  were  to  take  me  in  a  gon- 
dola to  see  them  making  glass,  or  else  somewhere 
to  eat  ices?  I  suppose  you've  finished  your  book 
by  this  time?" 

"  I  haven't  written  a  word,"  I  said.    "  How  could 


266  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

I  with  that  German  of  yours  playing  the  piano?" 

"Shall  I  stop  him?" 

"  Do,"  I  said,  "  if  you  can." 

I  had  begun  to  hate  that  German  bitterly,  and  I 
had  the  greatest  confidence  in  Bessie.  I  was  also 
curious  to  see  what  would  happen  when  he  told  her 
that  he  was  well  within  his  rights  in  playing  the 
hotel  piano  in  a  public  room.  I  felt  sure  he  would 
tell  her  that,  and  he  did. 

She  spoke  to  him  quite  politely,  though  she  did 
not  call  him  a  Highly  Honoured  Professor.  He 
answered  her  exactly  as  he  had  answered  me. 
Bessie  made  no  appeal  to  his  courtesy.  She  turned 
and  left  the  room.  The  German  smiled  and  began 
one  of  Bach's  fugues. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  disappointed.  I  had  expected 
Bessie  to  put  up  some  kind  of  a  fight.  She  had  done 
so  much  for  her  mother  that  I  thought  she  would 
have  faced  one  small  difficulty  for  me.  I  sighed. 
The  German  played  on  triumphantly. 

Then  Bessie  returned  carrying  a  violin  in  her 
hand.  She  told  me  afterwards  she  had  borrowed 
it  from  the  head  waiter,  using  the  hall  porter  as  an 
interpreter,  for  the  head  waiter's  English,  though 
ample  for  all  purposes  of  his  proper  business,  did  not 
run  to  the  names  of  musical  instruments.  Bessie  sat 
down  behind  the  German  and  screwed  up  her 
strings.  He  was  so  absorbed  in  the  intricacies  of 
the  second  fugue  that  he  did  not  notice  her.  She 
drew  the  bow  downward  across  the  strings  with  a 


THE  VIOLINIST  267 

sharp  jerk,  and  then,  equally  sharply,  pushed  it  up 
again.  She  succeeded  in  getting  sound  out  of  all 
four  strings. 

The  German  lifted  his  hands  from  the  piano, 
turned  round,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  face  of  horror. 
Bessie  smiled  pleasantly  and  began  to  work  the 
bow  up  and  down  each  string  in  turn  with  a  series 
of  short  but  vigorous  strokes.  I'm  not  very  musical, 
but  I  felt  inclined  to  shriek.  The  noise  Bessie  made 
was  absolutely  diabolical.  The  German,  I  think, 
was  musical.  He  stuffed  his  fingers  into  both  his 
ears. 

" Fr'dulein"  he  said,  " gnadiges  Fraulein,  in  the 
name  of  the  Almighty,  stop ! " 

Bessie  fiddled  on  relentlessly.  The  German 
relapsed  into  his  own  tongue,  and  my  impression 
is  that  he  swore  abominably.  Bessie  was  gaining  a 
mastery  over  her  instrument  every  minute,  and 
making  noises  that  I  should  not  before  have 
believed  to  be  possible.  The  German — he  must 
have  been  very  musical  indeed — fell  on  his  knees 
beside  her  and  reached  up  supplicating  hands. 

"Fraulein,"  he  said,  "you  are  unspeakably  ter- 
rible discord  making.  To  me  it  is  no  longer  without 
frenzy  and  madness  to  be  borne." 

Bessie  stopped.  "  I  am,"  she  said,  "  well  within 
my  rights  in  playing  the  fiddle  in  a  public  room 
in  the  hotel." 

The  German  got  up  from  his  knees  and  stumbled 


268  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

out  of  the  room.  I  never  saw  him  again,  so  I  think 
he  must  have  left  the  hotel. 

"  Now,"  said  Bessie,  "  go  on  with  your  book.  Do 
you  think  you  can  finish  it  before  lunch  ?  " 

"  I'm  inclined  to  leave  this  book  for  the  present," 
I  said.  "  Let's  go  in  a  gondola,  and  get  ices.  I 
know  a  shop  in  the  Piazza,  where  they  have  them 
really  good." 

I  am  now  convinced  that  Edith  was  quite  right. 
The  literary  man  who  is  lucky  enough  to  get  Bessie 
for  a  wife  has  fame  and  fortune  within  easy  grasp. 
Difficulties  simply  disappear  before  her. 


XVIII.— PASSIONATE  KISSES 

LISNALLY  is  a  small  and  inconvenient  town, 
but  the  neighbourhood  is  counted  an  agreeable 
one.  Nowhere  else  in  Ireland  are  there  so  many 
retired  military  officers.  We  are  not  very  well  off, 
but  we  are  most  friendly  and  sociable.  In  summer 
we  have  a  tennis  club.  In  winter  we  meet  at  each 
other's  houses  to  play  bridge.  We  possess,  both  in 
summer  and  in  winter,  fairly  good  golf  links.  The 
place  has  been  unkindly  described  as  a  hotbed  of 
gossip.  I  prefer  to  say  that  we  are  all  friendly  with 
our  neighbours,  and,  as  friends  should,  take  a  deep 
interest  in  each  other's  affairs.  When  old  Colonel 
Miles'  boy  passed  into  Sandhurst  I  was  as  pleased 
as  he  was,  and  told  the  news  to  everyone  I  met. 
When  Jack  Rodgers,  the  rector's  only  son,  took  first 
honours  in  some  college  examination,  old  Miles, 
who  was  the  first  to  hear  of  it,  called  on  me  and  half 
a  dozen  other  people  to  tell  us,  and  we  were  all  in 
a  position  to  congratulate  the  rector  when  we  met 
him.  I  do  not  call  that  kind  of  thing  gossip. 

Lisnally  Castle,  the  only  large  house  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, stood  empty  for  years  because  Lord 
Lisnally,  who  owned  it,  lived  abroad.  Last  Novem- 
ber it  was  taken  by  Mrs.  Lowe — the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Edward  Lowe.  We  all  knew  something  about 

269 


270  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

her  beforehand,  for  her  name  appears  frequently 
in  the  fashionable  intelligence  of  the  London  papers. 
She  is  a  widow  and  very  well  off.  Her  tastes,  so  we 
gathered  from  the  newspapers,  were  theatrical,  and 
we  all  hoped  that  she  would  get  up  something  in 
the  way  of  a  play  for  our  benefit  during  the  winter. 

I  called  on  her  directly  after  she  arrived,  and  she 
told  me  that  she  intended  to  do  something  to  bright- 
en us  all  up.  She  was  as  good  as  her  word.  Never 
before  or  since  did  Lisnally  enjoy  so  splendid  a 
sensation  as  that  which  Mrs.  Lowe's  New  Year 
party  provided. 

Early  in  December  she  proposed  that  we  should 
get  up  amateur  theatricals.  I  told  her  that  I  was 
too  old  to  take  a  part,  but  I  offered  to  act  as  stage 
manager.  Mrs.  Lowe  said  she  intended  to  be  stage 
manager  herself,  but  that  she  would  be  glad  of  my 
help  in  selecting  the  caste. 

"  Your  local  knowledge,  Major,"  she  said,  "  and 
your  tact  will  be  invaluable." 

They  were.  I  was  sorry  sometimes,  before  we 
were  through  with  the  business,  that  I  had  so  much 
local  knowledge  and  tact.  There  were  a  great  many 
difficulties,  and  Mrs.  Lowe  always  fell  back  on  me 
to  surmount  them. 

Our  principal  lady  was  Miss  Minnie  Rodgers,  the 
rector's  eldest  daughter.  She  was  a  very  pretty  girl, 
and  had  acted  several  times  at  school  in  speech  day 
plays.  We  had  no  hesitation  about  selecting  her, 
and  she  accepted  the  part  with  alacrity.  Our 


PASSIONATE  KISSES  271 

troubles  began  when  we  came  to  choose  the  leading 
gentleman.  There  were  three  candidates  for  the 
part  of  Minnie's  lover.  The  police  officer,  Mr. 
Gunning,  put  in  a  strong  claim.  He  said  it  was  the 
only  part  he  could  play  really  well.  The  villain, 
he  assured  us,  was  out  of  the  question  for  him  on 
account  of  his  profession.  As  a  police  officer  he 
could  not  possibly  compromise  himself  by  represent- 
ing a  man  whom  he  might  in  real  life  be  called  upon 
to  arrest.  He  firmly  refused  to  be  Minnie's  father, 
because  he  did  not  want  to  shave  off  his  moustache. 
George  Miles,  old  Colonel  Miles'  eldest  son,  who 
was  at  home  for  a  holiday,  said  that  he  wanted  the 
part. 

"  Gunning,"  he  said,  "  is  far  too  old  for  a  lover. 
The  hero  of  the  piece  ought  to  be  a  man  in  the  prime 
of  life." 

Gunning  looks  about  thirty ;  George  Miles  is  just 
nineteen. 

The  rector  read  the  play  as  a  sort  of  censor,  and 
told  me  that  he  made  a  point  of  the  lover's  part 
being  given  to  his  own  son.  Minnie,  as  he  pointed 
out,  had  to  be  kissed  several  times  in  the  last  act  by 
her  lover,  and  it  would  be  very  embarrassing  to  the 
girl  if  this  were  done  by  anyone  except  her  own 
brother.  Mrs.  Lowe  asked  me  to  settle  the  matter 
without  hurting  anybody's  feelings.  She  said  that 
she  did  not  really  care  who  had  the  part,  but  that 
George  Miles  was  by  far  the  best  suited  for  it,  and 


272  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

that  the  play  would  probably  be  a  complete  failure 
if  anyone  else  were  chosen. 

"  Whoever  it  is,"  she  said,  "  will  have  to  wear 
knee  breeches  and  silk  stockings,  and  you  know 
what  Mr.  Gunning's  legs  are  like — walking-sticks, 
iny  dear  Major,  emaciated  walking-sticks.  As  for 
that  Rodgers  boy,  he's  shaggy." 

I  saw  Mrs.  Lowe's  point.  Jack  Rodgers  is  a  little 
unkempt.  He  also  had  an  awkward  way  of  walking. 
But  the  rector's,  opinion  weighed  with  me.  I  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  subjecting  a  pretty  girl  to  the 
passionate  kisses — "  passionate  "  is  in  the  stage 
directions — of  a  strange  young  man  for  a  long  series 
of  rehearsals.  I  decided  in  my  own  mind  that  Jack 
Rodgers  must  have  the  part.  Unfortunately,  Minnie 
herself  preferred  Gunning.  I  do  not  know  how  she 
managed  it,  but  she  talked  Mrs.  Lowe  into  agreeing 
with  her.  Gunning  confessed  to  me  afterwards  that 
he  had  promised  to  pad  the  calves  of  his  legs  with 
cotton  wool. 

The  rector  called  on  me  when  he  heard  that  the 
matter  was  settled,  and  said  that  the  passionate 
kisses  must  be  left  out.  I  took  him  up  to  Lisnally 
Castle,  and  laid  his  proposal  before  Mrs.  Lowe.  She 
simply  scouted  it. 

"  My  dear  rector,"  she  said,  "  don't  be  absurd.  He 
won't  really  kiss  her.  He'll  only  smack  his  lips 
somewhere  near  the  back  of  her  head,  standing 
between  her  and  the  audience.  Look  here " 


PASSIONATE  KISSES  273 

She  threw  her  two  arms  round  the  rector's  neck 
and  smacked  her  lips. 

"You  can't  call  that  kissing,"  she  said,  "can 
you?" 

The  rector,  who  is  also  a  canon,  got  extremely 
red  in  the  face.  He  straightened  his  collar  and  the 
lappets  of  his  coat. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  if  there's  nothing  worse 
than  that " 

Mrs.  Lowe  picked  him  up  before  he  had  finished 
his  sentence. 

"Worse  than  that !"  she  said.  "Worse!  You're 
not  very  complimentary  to  me." 

The  rector  made  no  real  attempt  at  an  apology. 
We  left  the  house  together,  and  he  told  me  that  he 
would  not  allow  Minnie  to  act  in  the  play.  I  was 
not  much  frightened  by  the  threat.  Minnie  is  a 
young  woman  of  great  determination. 

Various  other  difficulties  arose  as  the  rehearsals 
went  on.  Every  individual  member  of  the  company, 
except  Minnie  and  Mr.  Gunning,  got  angry  about 
something  at  least  once,  most  of  them  three  or  four 
times.  My  hair  was  noticeably  greyer,  and  there 
was  a  great  deal  less  of  it,  when  we  reached  the 
dress  rehearsal  on  New  Year's  Eve.  Then,  I  am 
bound  to  say,  our  troubles  seemed  to  be  over.  The 
play  went  swimmingly  for  the  first  two  acts.  Mrs. 
Lowe  was  purring  with  delight,  and  I  found  myself 
patting  the  actors  on  the  back  and  expressing  my 
satisfaction  in  a  series  of  most  extravagant  compli- 


274  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

ments.  I  can  honestly  say  that  when  the  curtain 
rose  for  the  third  act,  I  did  not  feel  the  smallest  trace 
of  nervousness. 

Mrs.  Lowe  was  still  purring  when  the  crisis  of 
the  whole  play  arrived.  Mr.  Gunning,  his  legs  most 
beautifully  puffy,  was  on  his  knees  before  Minnie, 
and  his  pink  satin  breeches  had  stood  the  strain  of 
the  attitude.  He  poured  out  his  declaration  of 
devotion  in  the  best  possible  style.  Minnie  turned 
her  head  aside  coyly,  just  as  Mrs.  Lowe  had  taught 
her,  and  felt  about  with  her  left  hand  until  she 
grasped  Gunning's  shoulder.  Then  he  rose,  flung 
his  arms  round  her,  and  the  passionate  kisses  began, 
as  directed.  Instead  of  letting  her  head  fall  lan- 
guidly back  and  gazing  up  into  Gunning's  eyes,  as 
Mrs.  Lowe  had  arranged,  and  as  had  been  done  at 
every  rehearsal,  Minnie  suddenly  sprang  back  and 
smacked  Gunning's  face  with  tremendous  force. 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  she  said. 

Then  before  anyone  could  interfere  she  smacked 
his  face  again.  Mrs.  Lowe  and  I  rushed  forward. 
The  rector,  who  had  been  given  a  seat  in  front  by 
special  permission,  tried  to  climb  across  the  foot- 
lights. We  seized  Minnie  and  dragged  her  off  the 
stage.  Even  Gunning's  cheek — she  had  chosen  the 
same  one  for  both  smacks — was  not  redder  than 
hers  were. 

"  How  dared  he?  "  she  said. 

"What  did  he  do?"  said  Mrs.  Lowe. 


PASSIONATE  KISSES  275 

"  It,"  said  Minnie.  "  Really,  not  only  pretend- 
ing." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  I  said,  "  that  Mr. 
Gunning  actually " 

"  My  cheek,"  said  Minnie,  "  and  then — then  my 
mouth.  Oh ! " 

We  got  her  into  the  dressing-room,  and  then  Mrs. 
Lowe  signed  to  me  to  go  away.  I  was  extremely 
glad  to  do  so.  Minnie  was  laughing  in  a  convulsive 
way.  I  had  faced  most  of  the  difficulties  which 
naturally  arise  out  of  private  theatricals,  but  I  felt 
unequal  to  the  hysterics  of  the  leading  lady.  When 
I  reached  the  stage  I  found  young  Miles  and  Jack 
Rodgers  standing  together  in  a  corner.  I  was  not 
interested  in  them,  but  I  could  not  help  hearing 
Miles  calling  some  one,  presumably  Gunning,  an 
infernal  cad.  Rodgers  appeared  to  be  trying  to 
moderate  Miles'  passion.  He  said  something  about 
not  making  a  scene,  and  added  the  word  "  here  "  in 
sinister  tones.  He  was  doing  the  villain  in  the  piece, 
and  had  practiced  speaking  that  kind  of  way  so 
much  that  it  came  quite  natural  to  him.  Gunning 
was  standing  by  himself  at  the  far  side  of  the  stage. 
As  I  approached  him  I  saw  that  he  was  fumbling 
with  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  I  thought  for  a  moment 
that  he  had  gone  suddenly  mad  and  intended  to  kill 
me,  but  his  play  with  the  sword  must  have  been 
pure  nervousness.  What  he  actually  did  was  apolo- 
gise. 

"  I'm  frightfully  sorry,  Major,"  he  said.    "  I  give 


276  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

you  my  word  of  honour  that  I  didn't  mean  to.  It 
came  over  me  quite  suddenly,  and  I  couldn't 
help  it." 

"  You'd  better  go  home  at  once,"  I  said.  "  If  you 
were  drunk  there  would  be  some  excuse  for  you; 
but  as  things  stand,  the  only  proper  thing  for  you 
is  to  apply  to-morrow  for  a  transfer  to  some  other 
district  and  not  show  your  face  in  public  till  you 
get  it.  The  theatricals,  of  course,  can't  come  off 
now.  They're  utterly  ruined." 

Gunning  did  not  say  another  word.  He  was  so 
much  ashamed  of  himself  that  he  did  not  even 
attempt  to  change  his  clothes.  He  sneaked  out  of 
the  house  just  as  he  was,  in  pink  satin  breeches  and 
silk  stockings.  Young  Miles  and  Jack  Rodgers  did 
not  wait  to  change  their  clothes  either.  They  left 
shortly  after  Gunning  did. 

I  had  no  particular  wish  to  meet  the  rector,  who 
would  certainly  attack  me  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
comforting  Minnie.  The  remaining  members  of  the 
company  gathered  round  me,  and  were  babbling 
madly,  asking  questions  which  I  could  not  answer. 
I  thought  that  the  best,  certainly  the  most  agreeable, 
thing  for  me  to  do  was  to  go  home.  I  got  my 
overcoat  and  slipped  away. 

It  was  very  fortunate  indeed  that  I  did  so.  Near 
the  bottom  of  the  avenue  I  came  upon  Miles,  Rogers 
and  Gunning.  They  were  fighting.  Gunning  had 
his  back  to  a  clump  of  laurel-trees  and  was  putting 
up  a  pretty  good  defence,  considering  that  his  oppo- 


PASSIONATE  KISSES  277 

nents  were  two  to  one.  I  shouted  to  them  to  stop 
at  once.  Miles,  who  is  at  Sandhurst  and  has  some 
idea  of  discipline,  obeyed  me.  Gunning  looked 
round  to  see  who  I  was.  Rodgers,  who  all  through 
the  rehearsals  had  shown  a  contempt  for  my  author- 
ity, seized  his  opportunity  and  knocked  Gunning 
down.  The  laurel-bushes  broke  his  fall,  but  the 
blow  was  a  nasty  one.  Miles  appealed  to  me. 

"  Let's  thrash  him,  Major,"  he  said.  "  He 
deserves  it." 

I  could  not  deny  that  he  did,  but  I  happen  to  be 
a  man  of  some  position  and  a  magistrate.  It  was 
impossible  for  me  to  stand  by  and  watch  with 
approval  an  aggravated  assault  upon  a  police  officer. 
I  do  not  know  that  the  law  takes  a  specially  severe 
view  of  the  battery  of  a  policeman,  but  I  imagine 
that  it  would  be  much  more  difficult  to  hush  up  a 
case  of  the  kind  than  it  would  be  if  the  victim  were 
some  unofficial  person.  I  took  Miles  and  Rodgers 
each  by  an  arm  and  led  them  from  the  field  of  battle. 
They  came  with  me  without  resistance,  but  they 
kept  binding  themselves  by  frightful  oaths  not  to 
rest  until  they  were  savagely  revenged  on  Gunning. 
Miles,  I  recollect,  had  a  plan  for  inducing  the  police 
officer  to  accompany  him  to  France,  and  there 
forcing  him  to  fight  a  duel  with  revolvers.  Rodgers 
favoured  simpler  forms  of  brutality.  "  Mash  him 
up  "  was  one  of  the  phrases  he  used,  and  I  under- 
stood that  his  football  boots  were  to  be  the  chosen 
instruments. 


278  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

I  conducted  these  two  young  men  to  their  homes 
and  bound  them  over  to  attempt  no  further  violence 
until  the  next  morning.  Then  I  went  to  my  own 
house  and  settled  down  to  a  cigar,  which  I  needed 
badly. 

At  ten  o'clock  a  mounted  messenger  galloped  up 
to  my  door.  In  stories  which  deal  with  love  and 
duelling  mounted  messengers  always  gallop ;  in 
real  life  they  usually  trot.  But  this  one  did  actually 
gallop.  He  was  one  of  the  grooms  from  Lisnally 
Castle,  and  Mrs.  Lowe,  so  he  told  me,  had  ordered 
him  to  gallop.  She  has  a  very  strongly  developed 
taste  for  the  theatrical.  I  went  to  the  door  myself, 
and  the  man  handed  me  a  note  with  the  information 
that  no  answer  was  required.  It  was,  of  course, 
from  Mrs.  Lowe. 

"  Dear  Major,"  she  wrote.  "  It's  all  right.  I've 
settled  the  whole  affair  in  the  most  satisfactory 
possible  way.  The  play  will  come  off  to-morrow 
night  and  will  be  a  flaming  success." 

I  did  not  see  how  Mrs.  Lowe  could  possibly  have 
settled  the  matter.  She  might  have  pacified  Minnie. 
She  might,  though  it  seemed  very  unlikely,  have 
talked  the  rector  into  a  mood  of  Christian  forgive- 
ness towards  Gunning.  But  she  could  not  have 
known  anything  about  the  battle  which  had  been 
fought  on  her  avenue.  Miles  and  Rodgers  would 
certainly  not  act  on  the  same  stage  with  Gunning. 
Their  feelings  were  too  bitter  to  be  concealed,  and 
Gunning  himself  could  scarcely  appear  with  a  black 


PASSIONATE  KISSES  279 

eye.  I  was  quite  sure  that  his  eye  would  be  black 
after  the  way  Rodgers  hit  him.  Besides,  no  man 
with  any  self-respect  could  be  expected  to  fling  his 
arms  around  the  neck  of  a  girl  who  had  smacked 
his  face  twice  in  public.  Mrs.  Lowe  was  over- 
sanguine.  Her  note  did  not  cheer  me  up  in  the 
least. 

At  half-past  ten  the  rector  knocked  at  my  door. 
He  looked  shaken  and  extremely  nervous.  I  felt 
sorry  for  the  poor  man,  so  I  went  downstairs  and 
got  a  bottle  of  champagne.  I  make  a  point  of  keep- 
ing a  dozen  bottles  or  so  in  the  house,  though  I 
cannot  afford  to  drink  the  wine  except  on  great 
occasions.  The  rector  is  usually  a  teetotaler,  but 
he  drank  half  that  bottle,  and  would  have  drunk 
more  if  I  had  not  stopped  him.  Things  were  bad 
enough  without  any  additional  scandal,  and  there 
would  have  been  additional  scandal  of  a  very  serious 
kind  if  the  rector  had  gone  staggering  home  from 
my  house  at  midnight.  I  got  his  story  out  of  him 
bit  by  bit.  It  appeared  that  Minnie  had  been  most 
unreasonable,  had  raged  against  everyone,  and  had 
blamed  Mrs.  Lowe  and  me  for  making  a  scene.  The 
rector  said,  and  I  quite  agreed  with  him,  that  it  was 
Minnie  herself  who  had  made  the  scene.  If  she 
objected  to  scenes  she  ought  not  to  have  smacked 
Gunning's  face.  Nothing  the  rector  or  Mrs.  Lowe 
could  do  was  any  use.  Minnie  simply  became  more 
outrageous  when  they  reasoned  with  her.  Then 
Gunning  arrived  at  the  house  and  asked  to  be 


280  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

allowed  to  see  Minnie.  The  rector,  of  course, 
refused  permission,  but  he  went  out  to  the  hall 
himself  and  had  an  interview  with  Gunning.  That 
unfortunate  young  man  was  in  a  horrid  condition. 
His  eye  was  swelling  rapidly.  A  kind  of  cloak 
which  he  wore,  made  of  thin  silk,  was  in  rags.  The 
padding  of  the  calves  of  his  legs  had  somehow 
slipped  down  and  made  his  ankles  look  as  if  they 
were  enormously  swollen.  The  rector  thought  at 
first  that  he  had  sprained  them  both  badly,  and 
wondered  how  he  managed  to  walk.  Gunning  said 
he  wanted  to  apologise  to  Minnie,  but  the  rector 
cut  him  short,  and  told  him  to  go  home  at  once 
and  never  to  dare  to  go  near  Minnie  again.  Gunning 
went  after  that,  slowly,  like  a  man  in  deep  distress. 

The  rector  went  back  to  the  dressing-room  and 
told  Mrs.  Lowe  what  he  had  seen,  speaking  in  a 
whisper.  Minnie,  of  course,  heard  all  he  said, 
although  she  was  supposed  to  be  insensible  at  the 
time.  The  moment  the  rector  mentioned  Gunning's 
eye  she  jumped  up  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

The  rector  and  Mrs.  Lowe  stood  staring  at  each 
other,  wondering  what  they  ought  to  do.  In  the 
end  they  both  went  to  look  for  Minnie.  They  tried 
various  rooms,  and  came  back  at  last  to  the  hall. 
There  Minnie  met  them.  She  came  in  through  the 
front  door,  leading  Gunning  with  her,  and 
announced  that  she  and  he  were  engaged  to  be 
married. 


PASSIONATE  KISSES  281 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  said  the  rector.  "  I  don't  like 
it  at  all." 

"  But  you  can't  help  it,"  I  said. 

"As  far  as  I  can  make  out  there  has  been  an 
understanding  between  them  for  some  time  back, 
not  a  regular  engagement,  but  a  sort  of  mutual 
understanding." 

"Then    why    did    Minnie    object    so    violently 

when ?" 

"  It  was  only  an  understanding,"  said  the  rector. 
"  They  hadn't  gone  to  those  extremes." 

"  still — any  understanding  must  have  led  her  to 
expect " 

"  I  didn't  like  to  cross-question  her,  but  I  imagine 
she  didn't  think  anything  of  the  sort  would  have 
happened  just  then." 

"  It  was  rather  public,"  I  said. 

The  theatricals  went  on  and  were  a  great  success, 
though  the  last  act  of  the  play  was  not  finished  on 
the  night  of  the  performance.  I  spent  most  of  the 
day  arguing  with  Miles  and  Rodgers.  It  was  all  I 
could  do  to  persuade  them  to  act.  I  succeeded  in 
the  end  only  by  representing  Minnie's  original 
understanding  with  Gunning  as  something  much 
more  definite  than  it  actually  was.  Young  Miles 
gave  in  sulkily. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  if  a  fellow  was  engaged  to 
a  girl,  or  even  engaged  to  be  engaged,  he  has  a 
perfect  right  to — you  know  the  sort  of  thing  I  mean. 
But  what  I  want  to  say  is,  that  if  a  fellow  is,  then 


282  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

other  fellows  ought  to  be  told.  It's  an  utterly  rotten 
thing  not  to,  and  I  should  call  it  bad  form." 

Jack  Rodgers  took  a  different  line.  Once  he 
grasped  the  fact  of  the  understanding,  he  exonerated 
Gunning  completely,  and  laid  the  whole  blame  on 
Minnie. 

"  I've  always  known,"  he  said,  "  that  she  was  a 
deceitful  beast.  If  she  didn't  like  Gunning  kissing 
her,  she  ought  not  to  have  got  engaged  to  him.  If 
she  did  like  it — though  why  he  wanted  to  do  it  I 
can't  imagine — she  oughtn't  to  have  smacked  his 
face.  But  that's  Minnie  all  over." 

I  think  it  is  logic  in  which  Jack  Rodgers  takes 
honours  at  college. 

The  company  played  to  an  audience  excited  to 
the  highest  possible  pitch.  Mrs.  Lowe  had  collected 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  people  into  the  long 
gallery  at  Lisnally  Castle,  and  I  am  sure  that  every 
single  one  of  them  had  heard  an  erroneous  version 
of  the  story  of  Minnie's  engagement.  When  we 
reached  the  great  scene  in  the  third  act  there  was 
an  absolutely  breathless  silence.  When  Gunning — 
dreadfully  disfigured  by  the  condition  of  his  eye — 
flung  his  arms  round  Minnie's  neck  and  followed  the 
stage  direction,  the  whole  audience  rose  and  cheered 
in  the  most  terrific  way.  We  could  not  get  on  with 
the  play,  for  the  cheering  was  continuous  and 
drowned  every  effort  which  the  actors  made  to 
speak.  We  had  to  let  the  curtain  down  at  last  on 
Minnie  and  Gunning  still  locked  in  each  other's  arm 


XIX.— ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE 

Y  DEAR  ELEANOR,"  said  Lady  Kenure, 
decisively,  "  the  thing  is  simply  preposter- 
ous. The  Archdeacon,  I  am  quite  sure,  thoroughly 
agrees  with  me." 

Eleanor  Brooks  looked  contemptuously  at  the 
Archdeacon.  She,  also,  was  quite  sure  that  he 
would  agree  with  Lady  Kenure.  He  was  a  plump, 
kindly  little  man  who  loved  quiet,  and  therefore 
took  Lady  Kenure's  side  in  all  matters  of  dispute. 
He  had  been  invited  to  afternoon  tea,  just  as  the 
prophet  Balaam  was  invited  to  spend  a  week  with 
the  King  of  Moab,  in  order  that  he  might  add  the 
weight  of  an  ecclesiastical  malediction  to  the  con- 
demnation already  pronounced  on  Eleanor's  enter- 
prise. He  set  down  his  cup  with  a  sigh  and  cleared 
his  throat. 

"  Miss  Brooks'  plan,"  he  said  mildly,  "  is  highly 
creditable  to  her.  It  is  an  evidence  of  rare  good 
feeling ;  but  it  must,  I  fear,  be  regarded  as  imprac- 
ticable." 

He  spoke  pompously,  very  much  as  he  did  in  the 
pulpit,  but  not  because  such  a  way  of  talking  was 
natural  or  pleasant  to  him.  No  man  was  simpler, 
no  man  less  conscious  of  his  own  dignity  on  ordi- 
nary occasions  than  the  Archdeacon.  But  when  he 

283 


284  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

was  in  the  presence  of  Lady  Kenure  he  could  not 
help  expressing  himself  in  rounded  periods. 

"  You  hear  what  the  Archdeacon  says,"  said  Lady 
Kenure  to  her  niece.  "  Your  plan  is  quite  imprac- 
ticable. I  felt  sure  that  he  would  agree  with  me." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Eleanor  obstinately,  "  that  I 
cannot  agree  either  with  you  or  the  Archdeacon." 

"  Your  uncle,"  said  Lady  Kenure,  "  is  seriously 
angry,  very  seriously  angry  indeed." 

Eleanor  smiled.  The  Archdeacon's  eyes — neither 
of  the  ladies  was  looking  at  him — twinkled.  It  was 
not  easy  for  any  one  who  knew  Lord  Kenure  to  be 
much  frightened  by  the  threat  of  his  anger.  He  was 
an  old  gentleman  who  had  long  before,  in  the  early 
years  of  his  married  life,  learned  to  take  a  humorous 
view  of  life.  He  and  the  Archdeacon  had  a  good 
deal  in  common,  and  were  excellent  friends.  They 
both  made  a  habit  of  agreeing  with  Lady  Kenure. 

"  The  philanthropic  methods,"  said  the  Arch- 
deacon, "  adapted  for  the  amelioration  of  the  lapsed 
masses  of  the  great  English  cities  would  be  quite 
out  of  place  in  Western  Connaught.  As  I  under- 
stand you,  Miss  Brooks,  you  propose  to  establish 
what  is  called  a  settlement  among  our  poor  people 
similar  to  those  which  are  doing  such  excellent  work 
in  the  East  End  of  London." 

"  I  hope  to  do  that  in  the  end,"  said  Eleanor 
Brooks,  "but  at  first  I  shall  simply  take  lodgings 
in  one  of  the  cottages.  I  shall  learn  by  personal 
experience  how  the  people  live,  get  into  touch  with 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  285 

them,  and  gradually  elevate  them.  A  settlement, 
as  we  understand  the  word  in  England,  may  come 
afterwards.  I  must  begin  by  mastering  the  problem 
of  these  agricultural  slums " 

"  Preposterous,"  said  Lady  Kenure. 

"An  important  Government  Board,"  said  the 
Archdeacon,  "  is  already  engaged " 

"You  will  understand,  Eleanor,"  said  Lady 
Kenure,  "  that  if  you  persist  in  this  absurd  plan  you 
will  render  it  impossible  for  me  to  ask  you  here 
again.  I  cannot  have  you  in  this  house  if  you  make 
a  public  fool  of  yourself." 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  said  Eleanor,  "  I've  lived  and 
worked  in  a  London  settlement  ever  since  I  left 

Girton,  and  you  never  made  the  slightest  objection 
.  » 

"  What  is  possible  in  London,"  said  Lady  Kenure, 
"  is  out  of  the  question  here.  London  and  Con- 
naught  are  entirely  different  places.  The  Arch- 
deacon, I  am  sure,  agrees  with  me  in  that." 

The  Archdeacon  did,  and  said  so.  He  even 
appealed  to  Miss  Brooks,  calling  on  her  to  admit 
that  her  aunt's  statement  was  true.  She  turned 
on  him. 

"  I  can't  understand,"  she  said,  "  how  you  can  be 
content  to  live  in  the  midst  of  all  this  degradation 
and  misery  without  making  the  smallest  effort  to 
elevate  the  poor  people  around  you.  As  a  clergy- 
man, I  should  have  supposed " 

"  Eleanor,"  said  Lady  Kenure,  "  I  shall  not  allow 


286  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

you  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  the  Church  in  this 
house." 

"  There  is  a  Government  Board,"  said  the  Arch- 
deacon, "  which  is  using  every  effort  to " 

"  If,"  said  Lady  Kenure,  interrupting  him  and 
addressing  her  niece,  "  you  have  no  more  sense  of 
decency  than  to  mix  up  the  sacred  truths  of  religion 
with  your  own  ridiculous  fads,  I  am  exceedingly 
sorry  that  I  asked  the  Archdeacon  here  this  after- 
noon. You  ought  to  consider " 

The  Archdeacon  felt  for  his  hat,  which  he  had  laid 
down  beside  his  chair. 

"  If  Miss  Brooks,"  he  said,  rising  to  his  feet  as  he 
spoke,  "  would  take  counsel  with  some  of  the 
officials  of  the  Government  Board  of  which  I  spoke, 
men  who  have  been  engaged  for  years  in  the  kind 
of  work  which  Miss  Brooks  has  at  heart " 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  you  are  going,"  said  Lady 
Kenure.  "  After  the  way  Eleanor  has  spoken  to 
you  I  couldn't  expect " 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  the  Archdeacon  left  the 
room  in  charge  of  a  servant. 

II 

"  His  lordship,"  said  the  footman,  "  would  be 
obliged  if  you'd  speak  to  him  for  a  few  minutes  in 
the  library." 

Lord  Kenure  rose  from  a  deep  chair  and  wel- 
comed the  Archdeacon.  He  told  the  footman  to 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  287 

shut  the  door,  and  then  took  a  box  of  cigars  from 
the  chimney-piece. 

"  You  need  one,"  he  said.  "  You  must.  Have 
a  nip  of  whisky?" 

The  Archdeacon  refused  the  whisky,  but  he  lit  a 
cigar.  He  felt  that  his  nerves  required  soothing. 

"  How  did  it  end  ?  "  asked  Lord  Kenure. 

"It  hasn't  exactly  ended  yet,"  said  the  Arch- 
deacon. "  But  I  think  that  Miss  Brooks  will  get 
her  own  way.  She's  very  like  Lady  Kenure  in  some 
respects." 

"  Very.  That's  what  makes  things  so  difficult 
for  me." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  can  do  in  the  matter,"  said 
the  Archdeacon.  "  Lady  Kenure  said  you  would  be 
very  angry,  but  I  don't  think  Miss  Brooks  believed 
her." 

"  Did  you  succeed  in  making  out  exactly  what  it 
is  she  means  to  do? — Eleanor,  I  mean.  I've  heard 
the  subject  discussed  a  good  deal,  but  somehow  I 
failed  to  pick  up  the  details.  They  both  seemed  to 
think  I  understood ;  but  I  didn't." 

"  Miss  Brooks,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  means  to 
go  and  live  in  one  of  the  cabins " 

"On  my  estate?" 

"  So  I  understand.  She  wants  to  get  into  touch 
with  the  people's  life  in  order  that  she  may  elevate 
them  and " 

"Did  she  say  elevate?" 

"  I  think  so.    She  certainly  meant  it." 


288  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  Good  heavens ! "  said  Lord  Kenure,  "  how 
frightful ! " 

"  It  is.  The  people  won't  understand  it  in  the 
least.  It's  all  very  well  doing  that  kind  of  thing  in 
London.  I  don't  know  much  about  London,  but 
I've  been  led  to  believe  that  the  lapsed  masses  there 
are  educated  up  to  philanthropy,  and  like  it.  Our 
people  are  quite  different.  They  won't  have  the 
remotest  idea  what  she's  at,  and  they  won't  know 
how  to  treat  her.  It  will  be  very  awkward,  very 
awkward  indeed.  Almost  anything  may  happen." 

"  We  must  do  our  best,"  said  Lord  Kenure,  "  to 
save  her  from  serious  unpleasantness.  I  have  a 
great  affection  for  Eleanor.  I  shouldn't  like " 

"  But  what  can  we  do?    We're  perfectly  helpless." 

"  We  might  select  a  house  for  her  to  go  to,"  said 
Lord  Kenure,  "  a  decent  house  in  which  they  could 
give  her  a  room  to  herself." 

"  I  doubt  if  she'd  go  to  it  to  please  you." 

"  She  wouldn't,  of  course ;  but  you  might  recom- 
mend her  strongly  not  to  go  to  that  particular  house, 
and  I  should  definitely  forbid  her." 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  Archdeacon. 

"  She's  very  like  her  aunt  in  some  respects,"  said 
Lord  Kenure.  "Now,  can  you  suggest  a  house?" 

"  Tom  Geraghty,  of  Cloonacarragh,  is  a  respect- 
able man,  and  his  wife  is  a  very  decent  woman. 
They  have  seven  children,  but  I  think  they  could 
manage  to  pack  in  so  that  Miss  Brooks  could  have 
the  room  at  the  back  of  the  kitchen." 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  289 

"  Could  you  see  Tom  some  time  to-morrow  and 
explain  things  to  him  a  bit?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Get  him  to  understand,"  said  Lord  Kenure, 
"that  when  she  begins  to  elevate  him  he's  to  be 
elevated,  gradually,  of  course,  but  without  making 
a  fuss  about  it.  I'll  pay  anything  you  think  reason- 
able up  to  a  pound  a  week." 

"Tom  will  be  all  right,"  said  the  Archdeacon. 
"  The  whole  difficulty  will  be  with  his  wife.  You 
see,  the  elevating  is  sure  to  begin  inside  the  house. 
It'll  be  very  hard  on  Mrs.  Geraghty.  She  has 
enough  on  her  hands  as  it  is  with  seven  children." 

"  I  suppose  I'd  better  give  her  a  pound  a  week, 
too.  It'll  come  very  expensive  if  Eleanor  holds  out 
for  any  time." 

"  She  won't,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  confidently. 

"  I'll  send  down  some  house-linen,"  said  Lord 
Kenure ;  "  I  expect  the  Geraghty's  sheets " 

"  I  don't  think  they'll  have  any  sheets." 

"And  food,  of  course.  You  must  arrange  that 
with  Mrs.  Geraghty." 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  that  Miss 
Brooks  will  insist  on  eating  exactly  what  the  Ger- 
aghtys  have.  She  spoke  in  the  most  determined 
way.  I  don't  think  she'll  agree " 

"  Then  I  must  feed  the  whole  Geraghty  family 
while  she's  there.  I  shall  send  cold  pies  and  boiled 
hams  and  pressed  beef  and  things  of  that  sort  down 
to  the  rectory  every  evening,  and  you  must  get  Tom 


290  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Geraghty  to  fetch  them  after  dark.  Mrs.  Geraghty 
will  present  them  at  meal  times  as  if  they  were  the 
ordinary  food  of  the  family.  I  don't  suppose  Tom 
or  the  children  will  object." 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  but " 

The  Archdeacon  paused.  He  saw  a  serious  objec- 
tion to  the  plan,  but  he  did  not  like  to  put  it  into 
words.  Lady  Kenure,  following  the  advice  given 
by  Solomon's  mother,  looked  well  to  the  ways  of 
her  household,  and  it  would  not  be  easy  to  smuggle 
large  quantities  of  pies,  hams,  and  beef  out  of  the 
kitchen  of  Kenure  Castle  without  detection. 

"  The  Geraghtys,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  will  be 
delighted,  but " 

Lord  Kenure  caught  his  meaning. 

"  I'll  pay  for  it  all  myself,"  he  said ;  "  and  I'll 
tip  the  cook  to  keep  her  quiet.  After  all,  why 
shouldn't  I  tip  my  own  cook?  I'm  constantly  having 
to  tip  other  people's  butlers.  I  suppose  I  shall  have 
to  tip  the  housemaid,  too,  so  as  to  get  the  sheets 
and  things.  I  suppose  it  is  the  housemaid,  the  upper 
housemaid,  that  has  the  charge  of  them.  Do  you 
happen  to  know,  Archdeacon,  if  it  is  the  upper 
housemaid?  There's  no  use  my  tipping  the  wrong 
woman.  This  business  will  be  expensive  enough 
without  that." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  Archdeacon.  "  There's 
a  servant  called  the  stillroom  maid,  and  it  might 
be  her." 

"  It's  not,"  said  Lord  Kenure.    "  She  manages  the 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  291 

jam.  I  know  that.  They'd  never  give  the  jam  and 
bed-clothes  to  the  same  woman.  Think  how 
unpleasant  it  would  be  if  she  went  straight  from  the 
one  to  the  other  without  washing  her  hands." 

"  I  still  think,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  that  it 
would  be  much  better  if  Miss  Brooks  could  be 
persuaded  to  consult  the  officials  of  the  Board.  I'm 
sure  they'd  find  her  a  job  of  some  sort  which  would 
suit  her.  They  employ  all  kinds  of  people,  and  I 
expect  they'd  be  glad  enough  to  give  Miss  Brooks 
a  roving  inspectorship,  especialy  as  she  wouldn't 
want  to  be  paid." 

"There's  no  use  talking  about  that." 

"  I  suppose  not.  But  wouldn't  it  be  as  well  for 
you  to  try  her  ?  " 

"  You  tell  me,"  said  Lord  Kenure,  "  that  her  mind 
is  made  up,  and  if  it  is  we  can't  alter  it.  She's  very 
like  her  aunt  in  some  respects,  and  you  know  as 
well  as  I  do " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Archdeacon  sadly. 

"You  see  the  Geraghtys,"  said  Lord  Kenure, 
"  and  I'll  make  all  arrangements  with  the  cook  and 
the  housemaid.  We  can  do  no  more." 

Ill 

A  week  later  the  Archdeacon  dined  at  Kenure 
Castle.  He  had  the  honour  of  giving  his  arm  to 
Lady  Kenure  and  the  pleasure  of  sitting  opposite  a 
pleasant-looking  girl,  another  niece,  this  time  quite 


292  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

unlike  her  aunt  in  appearance  and  character,  who 
had  been  summoned  by  telegram  to  take  Eleanor's 
place  in  the  household.  She  chatted  cheerfully 
about  motoring  in  France  and  appeared  to  be 
uninterested  in  any  branch  of  philanthropic  work. 
Eleanor's  enterprise  was  not  even  mentioned  during 
dinner.  Afterwards,  when  the  ladies  had  left  the 
room,  the  Archdeacon  introduced  the  subject. 

"  Tom  Geraghty  was  up  with  me  last  night,"  he 
said. 

'  Well  ?  "  said  Lord  Kenure.  "  How  is  she  getting 
on  ?  She's  had  two  days  of  it  now." 

"  Capitally  so  far,"  said  the  Archdeacon.  "  There's 
hardly  been  a  hitch.  Tom  likes  her  greatly,  and  his 
wife  is  getting  reconciled  to  the  situation." 

"  I  suppose  she's  scarcely  got  into  her  stride  yet. 
I  mean  to  say  she  hasn't  started  trying  to  elevate 
them." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  has.  She  began  at  once.  The  very 
minute  she  arrived  she  swept  out  the  kitchen  and 
then  offered  to  cook  the  dinner.  Mrs.  Geraghty 
said  there  was  no  necessity  for  her  to  trouble  about 
that,  because  the  dinner  was  all  cooked  except  the 
potatoes.  It  was,  you  know.  She  had  the  cold 
chicken  pie,  the  ham,  and  the  pressed  beef  which 
had  been  sent  down  the  night  before." 

"  I  hope  she  didn't  bring  them  all  out  at  once. 
That  would  be  likely  to  rouse  Eleanor's  suspicions." 

"  No,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  I  warned  her  not 
to  do  that.  I  told  her  to  begin  with  the  ham.  She 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  293 

kept  the  pie  and  the  pressed  beef  in  a  cupboard  until 
she  noticed  the  thorough  way  Miss  Brooks  cleaned 
the  kitchen.  Then  she  hid  them  under  the  bed  and 
told  the  children  she'd  skelp  any  one  she  found 
crawling  after  them.  Dinner  went  off  very  well. 
Miss  Brooks  said  she  supposed  the  ham  came  from 
one  of  their  own  pigs,  and  Tom  said  it  did,  and  that 
he'd  cured  it  himself.  By  the  way,  I  wish  you'd 
tell  the  cook  not  to  glaze  the  next  one.  Tom  said 
she  asked  his  wife  a  lot  of  questions  about  the 
glazing,  and  Mrs.  Geraghty  had  to  say  that  the 
eldest  girl  learned  to  do  it  from  a  travelling  cookery 
teacher  the  Board  sent  round." 

"  That  might  very  well  have  been  true,"  said  Lord 
Kenure.  "  The  last  cookery  demonstration  that 
was  held  in  the  convent  they  were  icing  cakes." 

"  It  might  have  been  true,"  said  the  Archdeacon, 
"  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  wasn't.  The  Geraghty 
girl  has  never  been  near  a  cookery  class." 

"What  happened  next?" 

"  After  dinner  Miss  Brooks  helped  to  wash  up. 
Then  she  took  Mrs.  Geraghty  out  for  a  walk  and 
talked  to  her  about  the  way  mothers  ought  to  bring 
up  children.  Tom  says  his  wife  took  it  very  well, 
better  than  he  would  have  expected,  considering  that 
she  has  seven  children  and  must  know  something 
about  them,  whereas  Miss  Brooks  has  none." 

"  That  wouldn't  prevent  her  knowing  all  about 
them,"  said  Lord  Kenure.  "  Her  aunt  has  no 
children  either,  and  she  runs  a  Mothers'  Union." 


294  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  In  the  evening,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  there 
was  very  nearly  being  a  row.  Miss  Brooks  wanted 
to  wash  all  the  children — bath  them,  you  know. 
The  children  naturally  objected.  So  did  Mrs.  Ger- 
aghty.  She  regarded  the  proposal  as  a  personal 
insult." 

"  I  expect  Eleanor  bathed  them  all  the  same." 
"  She  did.  Tom  took  his  wife  outside  the  house, 
and  reasoned  with  her.  He  had  a  hard  job,  and  in 
the  end  he  had  to  tell  her  that  you  were  paying  him 
£2  a  week  to  be  kind  to  Miss  Brooks,  as  well  as  the 
food  you  sent  down.  He  hadn't  mentioned  the 
money  before,  thinking,  I  suppose,  that  he'd  be  able 
to  keep  it  in  his  own  pocket." 

"  Did  he  own  up  to  the  whole  £2  at  once  ?  " 
"  No,  he  didn't.  He  began  at  7s.  6d.,  and  rose  by 
5s.  a  week,  until  his  wife  agreed  to  have  the  children 
bathed.  She  gave  in  at  37s.  6d.,  and  then  he  thought 
he  might  as  well  confess  to  the  extra  half-crown. 
He  was  in  a  bad  temper  when  he  had  finished,  and 
by  his  own  account  he  threatened  the  children  in  the 
most  frightful  way  if  any  one  of  them  dared  so  much 
as  to  whimper,  however  hard  Miss  Brooks  scrubbed 
them.  Mrs.  Geraghty  did  her  best  with  them,  too, 
once  she  heard  about  the  money.  She  promised 
them  a  slice  of  ham  each  to  eat  in  bed  if  they  allowed 
Miss  Brooks  to  do  what  she  liked  to  them." 
"  I  should  think  that  nearly  finished  the  ham." 
"  It  did.  Fortunately,  they  had  eggs  enough  to 
go  round  at  breakfast  next  morning.  Miss  Brooks 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  295 

gave  Mrs.  Geraghty  a  great  talking  to  about  the 
way  she  made  tea.  She  threw  out  what  was  in  the 
tea-pot — stewed,  I  expect.  You  know  the  way  the 
country  people  like  it.  She  said  it  was  poison,  and 
made  some  fresh.  Tom  said  it  was  the  poorest  stuff 
he  ever  tasted,  but  he  put  up  with  it.  After  break- 
fast Miss  Brooks  turned  to  and  tidied  the  house. 
Mrs.  Geraghty  was  perfectly  right  in  moving  the  pie 
and  the  pressed  beef  when  she  did.  The  cupboard 
was  one  of  the  first  places  Miss  Brooks  went  for. 
She  threw  out  a  lot  of  things.  Tom  says  his  wife 
said  they  were  valuable  clothes,  and  that  he 
expected  you'd  pay  for  them." 

"  I  shall  have  to,  of  course." 

"  Miss  Brooks  called  them  dirty  rags  and  used 
a  word  about  them  which  Tom  appeared  to  think 
was  profane,  but,  as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  it  was 
nothing  worse  than  '  insanitary.'  That  kept  her 
pretty  well  occupied  till  dinner  time.  There  was 
very  nearly  being  trouble  then  over  the  pie." 

"Was  it  glazed,  too?" 

"  It  was,  but  that  wouldn't  have  mattered.  Mrs. 
Geraghty  had  explained  the  glazing  quite  satisfac- 
torily. Unfortunately,  Miss  Brooks  recognised  the 
dish.  It  appears  to  have  been  some  peculiar  kind 
of  earthenware " 

"  Good  heavens !  "  said  Lord  Kenure.  "  What  a 
fool  the  cook  is!  She  must  have  sent  it  down  in 
one  of  those  purple  dishes  my  wife  bought  two  years 
ago  in  Bavaria.  No  wonder  Eleanor  looked  crooked 


296  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

at  it.  I  don't  suppose  there's  any  of  that  crockery 
in  Ireland  outside  of  this  house.  What  happened? " 

"  Tom  couldn't  think  what  to  say.  All  he  could 
do,  according  to  his  own  account,  was  to  wink  at  his 
wife.  Miss  Brooks  caught  him  in  the  act.  Whether 
she  had  any  suspicion  of  the  truth  or  not,  I  can't  say. 
If  she  had,  Mrs.  Geraghty  put  her  off  the  track 
completely." 

"  How  did  she  do  it?  I'd  have  thought  that  was 
an  uncommonly  nasty  situation." 

"  She  said  she'd  stolen  the  dish,  and  told  a  long 
story  about  one  day  she  was  up  here  selling  eggs, 
and  saw  the  dish  lying  outside  on  the  kitchen 
window-sill.  Miss  Brooks  didn't  say  a  word  at  the 
time,  but  afterwards  she  gave  Mrs.  Geraghty  an 
awful  talking  to.  The  poor  woman  was  sitting 
under  a  haystack  when  Tom  found  her.  She  said 
she  wouldn't  go  through  it  again  if  you  doubled  the 
money  you  were  giving.  It  took  Tom  all  his  time 
to  pacify  her.  In  the  evening  Miss  Brooks  bathed 
all  the  children  again.  Fortunately  Tom  had  bought 
twopennyworth  of  sweets,  thinking  something  of 
the  sort  might  happen,  so  there  wasn't  much  trou- 
ble. Mrs.  Geraghty  was  too  cowed  to  make  a  fuss, 
but  she  wouldn't  let  Miss  Brooks  touch  the  baby. 
The  rest  of  them  she  left  to  their  fate." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it'll  do  them  any  harm,"  said 
Lord  Kenure. 

"  I  don't  know.  That  amount  of  washing  must 
be  very  severe  when  you're  not  used  to  it.  Tom 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  297 

says  the  eldest  girl  had  a  frightful  cold  after  the  first 
night,  and  that  he  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  was 
in  consumption  this  morning.  I  didn't  hear  how 
she  was." 

"  She'll  hardly  die,  I  suppose?" 
"She'll  die  some  day,"    said    the    Archdeacon; 
"and  even  if  it's  not  till  she's  eighty  everybody 
will  always  put  it  down  to  the  washing.    They'll  say 
it  undermined  her  constitution." 

A  footman  entered  the  room  while  the  Archdea- 
con was  speaking.  "I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  but  there's  a  man  of  the  name  of  Geraghty  at  the 
door  who  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Geraghty !  "  said  the  Archdeacon.    "  Not  Tom 
Geraghty?" 
"  I'll  inquire,  sir." 

"If  it  is  Tom  Geraghty,"  said  Lord  Kenure, 
"  you'd  better  show  him  in  here." 

"Something  must  have  gone  wrong,"  said  the 
Archdeacon  when  the  footman  left  the  room; 
"  something  serious,  I  fear." 

"  Can  that  child  possibly  have  died?" 
"I  don't  think  so.     Not  yet.     The  most  rapid 
cases  last  a  few  weeks." 

"  Perhaps  he's  only  come  to  return  the  pie-dish. 
Eleanor  would  very  likely  insist  on  some  act  of 
reparation  of  that  kind." 

The  footman,  having  satisfied  himself  that  he  had 
got  the  right  man,  ushered  Tom  Geraghty  into  the 
dining-room. 


298  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"Is  she  dead?"  asked  the  Archdeacon,  "or  is  it 
only  the  pie-dish?" 

"  She  is  not  dead,"  said  Geraghty,  "  but  she's 
gone  from  us  after  using  language  the  like  of  which 
I  never  listened  to,  and  what's  more,  won't  stand." 

"  You  ought  to  have  brought  her  up  better," 
said  the  Archdeacon.  "  It  must  have  been  from 
you  that  she  learned  to  swear." 

"  Brought  her  up !  "  said  Geraghty.  "  If  I'd  had 
the  bringing  up  of  that  one  I'd " 

"Who  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  Lord 
Kenure.  "Your  own  daughter  or  Miss  Brooks?" 

"  It's  the  young  lady,"  said  Geraghty,  "  that  his 
reverence  sent  down  to  us.  Faith,  it's  hard-earned 
money  what  a  man  would  get  for  keeping  the  likes 
of  her.  Never  a  minute's  peace  there's  been  in  the 
house  since  she  came  into  it,  and  at  the  latter  end 
she  turned  outrageous  altogether." 

"What  happened?"  asked  the  Archdeacon. 

"  Take  a  glass  of  whisky,"  said  Lord  Kenure. 
"  It's  there  on  the  sideboard  behind  you ;  and  then 
tell  us  what  has  happened  as  calmly  as  you  can." 

The  whisky  did  something  to  restore  Tom 
Geraghty's  temper. 

"  There  was  talk  at  dinner,"  he  said,  "  about  the 
bit  of  meat  that  was  in  it,  the  same  that  his  lordship 
sent  down." 

"  The  pressed  beef,"  said  Lord  Kenure.  "  Was 
there  anything  wrong  with  it?" 

"  I  wouldn't  ask  to  fault  it  myself,"  said  Geraghty, 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  299 

"  but  the  young  lady  seemed  someways  uneasy  in 
her  mind  about  it.  There  was  no  end  to  the  ques- 
tions she  was  asking.  At  the  latter  end  herself  said 
it  was  a  present  she  had  from  a  niece  of  her  own 
that  was  cook  in  a  big  hotel  beyond  in  America, 
who  did  be  sending  a  trifle  home  to  the  children 
now  and  again." 

"Did  she  believe  that?"  asked  Lord  Kenure. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  she  did,  but  she  let  it  pass.  And 
we  got  on  quiet  and  easy  enough  till  near  bedtime, 
barring  that  she  had  the  children's  tempers  riz  with 
washing  them  again,  and  me  after  forgetting  to  buy 
sweets  for  them.  Anyway  that  passed  off  too,  and 
away  with  her  to  bed.  I'll  say  that  much  for  her, 
she  was  always  one  for  going  early  to  her  bed. 
Well,  hardly  ever  had  I  got  my  pipe  lit  before  she 
was  in  on  us,  and  her  with  very  little  on  her,  so 
that  I'd  be  ashamed.  'What's  up  with  you  now?' 
says  herself.  '  Is  it  mad  you  are  ? '  '  Look  at  that,' 
says  she,  holding  up  the  end  of  one  of  the  sheets 
your  lordship  was  after  sending  down  for  her. 
'  What  of  it  ? '  says  I,  '  is  it  not  good  enough  for 
you  ? '  '  Look  at  it,'  she  says,  '  what's  that  in  the 
corner  of  it  ?  Is  all  you  have  in  this  house  stole  ? ' 
says  she.  I  looked  at  it,  and  sure  enough  there 
was  a  kind  of  a  little  crown  in  the  corner  of  it  and 
a  big  '  K '  underneath  that.  '  You  blasted  robbers,' 
says  she,  *  May  the  devil " 

"  Come  now,"  said  Lord  Kenure,  "  those  can't  be 
her  exact  words. 


300  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  If  they're  not,"  said  Geraghty,  "  they're  mighty 
like  them.  Only  hers  was  worse.  I'd  have  stood  it 
myself  on  account  of  the  respect  I  have  for  your 
lordship  and  his  reverence  here,  but  herself  up  and 
told  her  the  truth." 

"  The  whole  of  it?"  said  Lord  Kenure. 

"  Every  word,"  said  Geraghty,  "  and  you  never 
seen  a  young  lady  so  put  about.  At  the  end  of  that 
she  went  back  and  put  her  clothes  on  her " 

The  footman  entered  the  room  while  Geraghty 
was  speaking. 

"  Her  ladyship's  compliments,  my  lord,  and  she'd 
be  obliged  if  your  lordship  would  join  her  in  the  big 
drawing-room." 

"  James,"  said  Lord  Kenure,  "  is  Miss  Brooks 
there?" 

"  Miss  Brooks  has  just  come  in,  my  lord." 

"  Come  along,  Archdeacon,"  said  Lord  Kenure. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  that  I  shall  slip 
off  home.  You  will  make  my  apologies  to  Lady 
Kenure." 

"  No,  I  won't.  You  shall  come  with  me.  You 
are  just  as  much  responsible  as  I  am.'* 

He  took  the  Archdeacon  by  the  arm,  and  they 
went  together  into  the  drawing-room.  Lady  Kenure 
sat  on  the  sofa,  with  her  arm  round  Eleanor,  who 
looked  dishevelled.  The  other  niece  sat  on  a  remote 
chair  by  herself,  and  seemed  nervous  and  frightened. 
Lord  Kenure  glanced  at  the  Archdeacon.  His  eyes 


ELEANOR'S  ENTERPRISE  301 

expressed  apprehension.  The  situation  was  suffi- 
ciently uncomfortable. 

"  I  want  some  explanation,"  said  Lady  Kenure, 
"  of  the  way  in  which  Eleanor  has  been  treated." 

"  Tom  Geraghty,"  said  Lord  Kenure,  "  is  still  in 
the  dining-room.  I  will  go  and  fetch  him." 

"  Let  me  go,"  said  the  Archdeacon. 

"Who  is  this  Tom  Geraghty?" 

"  He's  the  man  in  whose  house  I  stayed,"  said 
Eleanor. 

"  I  always  said  the  whole  thing  was  preposterous, 
preposterous  and  absurd  to  the  last  degree,  but " 

"  It  was,"  said  Lord  Kenure,  with  an  air  of  relief. 
"  I  don't  see  that  Eleanor  has  any  one  to  blame  but 
herself." 

"  But,"  said  Lady  Kenure  emphatically,  "  that's 
no  reason  why  the  poor  girl  should  have  been  held 
up  to  public  ridicule.  Will  you  kindly  explain  to 
me " 

"  The  cook,"  said  Lord  Kenure,  "  glazed  the  ham 
and  the  pie  without  orders  from  me.  I  suppose 
she  glazed  the  pressed  beef,  too.  I  didn't  tell  her 
to." 

"  I  mean  to  speak  to  the  cook  to-morrow  morn- 
ing," said  Lady  Kenure,  "and  pack  her  back  to 
London  as  soon  as  ever  I  can  get  another." 

"  She  deserves  it  thoroughly,"  said  Lord  Kenure. 

"  But  that  will  not  explain  the  extraordinary 
conspiracy " 


"  It  was  the  Archdeacon  who  suggested- 


302  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  I  suggested  nothing,"  said  the  Archdeacon, 
"  except  that  Miss  Brooks  should  get  into  touch 
with  the  officials  of  the  Board  which  has  charge  of 
this  district.  I  still  think  that  would  have  been 
the  proper  course  for  her  to  take.  In  fact,  I  am 
more  convinced  of  it  than  ever." 

"  Eleanor,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Kenure,  turning 
to  her  niece,  "  you  are  over-tired.  I  think  you  had 
better  go  to  bed.  I  shall  find  out  from  your  uncle 
exactly  what  has  happened." 

Eleanor,  followed  by  the  other  niece,  who  seemed 
glad  to  escape,  left  the  room. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  that  I  had  bet- 
ter say  good-night." 

"Good-night!"  said  Lady  Kenure,  frigidly.  "I 
do  not  profess  to  understand  how  you  can  reconcile 
your  conscience — your  conscience  as  a  dignitary  of 
the  Church — to  the  part  you  have  played  in  humili- 
ating an  unfortunate  girl,  who  was  trying  to  do  the 
sort  of  work  which  you  have  systematically 
neglected." 

"  Miss  Brooks  said  something  like  that  before," 
said  the  Archdeacon.  "  I  can  only  say  that  as  long 
as  there  is  a  Government  Board " 

"  Good-night !  "  said  Lady  Kenure,  decisively. 

Lord  Kenure  looked  sadly  after  the  Archdeacon. 
Then  he  sat  down  and  folded  his  hands.  He  had  a 
bad  half-hour  before  him. 


T 


XX.— THE  CAREYS 

HEIR  home  is  in  the  flat  midland  of  Ireland, 
in  one  of  those  districts  in  which,  to  use  our 
favourite  euphemism,  there  is  "trouble."  I  need 
not  describe  the  trouble.  Politicians  have  done  that, 
done  it  till  nobody  wants  it  done  again— half  of 
them  eloquently  insisting  upon  its  extreme  trouble- 
someness,  the  other  half  with  equal  eloquence  main- 
taining that  "  trouble  "  is  far  too  strong  a  word  to 
apply  to  innocent  amusement.  The  Careys,  Peter 
and  Affie,  a  pair  of  brothers  and  both  young,  are  in 
the  thick  of  the  trouble  whatever  it  is.  All  the 
authorities  give  them  a  bad  character.  The  parish 
priest  spoke  to  me  about  them  guardedly. 

"  They're  not  the  boys  they  ought  to  be,"  he  said, 
"  though  their  old  mother  that  lives  with  them  is  as 
decent  a  woman  as  you'd  meet." 

Questioned  about  their  misdeeds,  he  became  very 
vague.  They  did  not  drink.  He  admitted  that. 

"Nobody  ever  saw  the  sign  of  it  on  them;  but 
they're  careless  in  their  religious  duties;  though  I 
wouldn't  go  as  far  as  to  say  they  were  disrespectful 
to  the  clergy.  It  was  the  same  with  their  father 
before  them,  but  that  was  before  my  time." 

The  police  sergeant  was  more  explicit.  It  was 
he,  and  not  I,  who  introduced  the  subject  of  the 

303 


304  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

Careys.  I  was  only  vaguely  curious.  To  him,  as 
to  most  other  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  Peter 
and  Affie  are  a  sort  of  obsession.  All  subjects  of 
conversation  lead  to  them  in  the  end. 

"  They're  daring,"  he  said,  "  mighty  daring. 
There's  little  they  wouldn't  be  fit  to  do  in  the 
way  of  bad  work.  If  there's  trouble  of  any  sort 

going " 

.    "Cattle  driving?"  I  suggested.     "Boycotting?" 

The  neighbourhood  has  a  reputation  for  both, 
and  I  thought  that  the  Careys'  daring  might  find 
expression  in  one  or  the  other. 

"And  worse,"  said  the  sergeant  significantly. 
"  Whatever  it  might  be  in  the  way  of  lawlessness, 
them  Careys  will  be  at  the  head  and  tail  of  it.  It 
was  the  same  with  their  father  before  them  and  the 
old  Land  League.  I  wasn't  in  it  them  times,  but 
I'm  told  he  was  a  terrible  man,  and  the  trouble 
wouldn't  have  been  the  half  what  it  was  only  for 
him." 

The  belief  in  heredity  is  extraordinarily  strong 
amongst  us.  The  parish  priest  also  holds  the  view 
that  the  Careys'  teeth  are  on  edge  on  account  of 
the  sour  grapes  which  their  fater  ate. 

"  It  was  in  old  Carey's  yard,"  the  sergeant  went 
on — "  that's  the  grandfather  of  Peter  and  Arfie  and 
the  father  of  the  man  that  was  in  it  in  the  bad 
times — it  was  in  his  yard  that  the  police  found 
the  arms  buried  when  the  Fenians  was  out.  It  was 


THE  CAREYS  305 

him  that  was  the  chief  man  amongst  the  Fenians 
in  these  parts." 

I  began  to  feel  sorry  for  Peter  and  Affie.  With 
an  ancestry  like  theirs  and  a  fixed  determination  on 
the  part  of  everybody  to  give  them  a  bad  name, 
it  is  almost  inevitable  that  they  should  plunge  into 
violent  courses. 

"  Drink  ?  "  I  suggested.  Like  charity,  drink  cov- 
ers a  multitude  of  sins  and  is  a  recognised  and 
admitted  excuse  for  almost  any  kind  of  wrong- 
doing. 

"  They  wouldn't  touch  a  drop,"  said  the  sergeant 
emphatically,  "  neither  the  one  of  them  nor  yet  the 
other.  It  would  be  better  for  them  if  they  did. 
Where  the  drink's  going  there'll  not  be  much  be- 
sides. There's  worse  things  than  the  drink." 

This  view  was  new  to  me.  It  may  be  sound.  I 
imagine  that  it  is  sound  when  there  is  question  of 
privy  conspiracy,  rebellion,  battle,  murder,  and  sud- 
den death.  The  original  Carey,  the  Fenian,  would 
hardly  have  kept  the  arms  buried  as  long  as  he  did 
if  he  had  been  given  to  whisky.  Men  babble  in 
their  cups.  However,  the  Careys  are  no  business 
of  mine,  neither  the  bygone  generations  of  them  nor 
the  present  Peter  and  Ame.  I  was  going  to  see  the 
widow  Conway,  quite  a  different  sort  of  person. 

She  lives  alone  in  a  tiny  cabin  which  stands  at 
the  end  of  a  long  muddy  bohireen.  She  had  a  hus- 
band once  and  a  fine  family  of  sons  and  daughters, 
two  sons  and  three  daughters.  They  are  all  gone 


306  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

from  her  now.  The  husband,  the  eldest  son  and 
two  of  the  daughters  have  taken  the  longest  jour- 
ney of  all,  the  children  by  the  way  of  consumption, 
the  husband  mysteriously,  "  after  a  vomiting  and  a 
terrible  pain  that  the  doctor  could  do  nothing  for." 
So  she  told  me.  The  remaining  son  and  daughter 
took  the  other  journey,  hardly  less  inevitable, 
"across  the  big  sea."  They  are  in  America.  The 
mother  lives  alone,  a  broken  woman,  half  crippled 
with  rheumatism,  on  the  patch  of  stony  land  which 
her  husband,  and  after  him  the  son  who  died,  used 
to  till. 

I  found  her  seated  on  a  low  stool, — "creepy" 
stools  we  call  these  seats — beside  a  smouldering 
turf  fire  in  a  room  which  was  very  ill-lit.  The  fire 
was  smoking,  or  had  been  smoking,  which  made  it 
still  harder  to  see  at  first.  It  was  only  after  some 
minutes  that  I  discerned  a  calf  standing  in  a  corner 
barricaded  in  with  an  old  packing  case.  It  seemed 
a  placid,  friendly  calf,  well  satisfied  with  the  warmth 
of  its  lodging.  Mrs.  Conway  brought  forward  a 
chair  for  me  and  wiped  it  with  her  apron.  Then, 
by  way  of  welcome,  she  made  up  the  fire,  piling  on 
fresh  sods  of  brown  turf.  I  had  noticed  a  fine  stack 
of  turf  in  the  yard  as  I  approached  the  door.  I 
remarked  on  it,  saying  that  she  was  fortunate  in 
having  so  large  a  supply  of  fuel. 

"  I  have  good  neighbours,"  she  said.  "  If  it  wasn't 
for  them  I  wouldn't  have  a  sod  at  all.  How  would 
I  be  going  to  the  bog  to  save  it  ?  " 


THE  CAREYS  30? 

Saving  turf  is  laborious  work,  work  for  strong 
men,  not  for  a  rheumatic  old  woman,  and  carting 
turf  home  is  a  long  job  when  the  bog  is  five  miles 
away. 

"  It's  wonderful,"  she  said,  "  the  way  they  do  it 
for  me  every  year,  fetching  it  home  and  all,  and 
never  a  penny  they'll  take  for  doing  it,  not  even  if 
I  had  it  to  give  them;  but  sure  they  know  well 
that  I  haven't." 

It  appeared  that  this  was  not  by  any  means  all 
that  the  neighbours  did  for  her. 

"  When  it's  the  time  for  saving  my  little  lock  of 
hay,"  she  said,  "  them  boys  will  be  down  here  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  taking  a  turn  at  it  before 
ever  they  begin  their  own  work.  And  in  the  even- 
ing when  another  would  be  wanting  to  amuse  him- 
self they'll  be  down  here  again  until  such  time 
as  they  have  it  saved.  It's  badly  I'd  do  without 
them." 

"They're  good  neighbours,"  I  said,  "whoever 
they  are." 

"  You  may  say  that,  and  it  isn't  even  aS  if  they 
were  some  of  our  own." 

"  Our  own  ?  "  I  was  doubtful  of  the  phrase. 

"  I  am  a  Protestant,"  she  said,  "  and  all  that  ever 
belonged  to  me  were  Protestants,  and  they're  be- 
longing to  the  other  side." 

Well,  the  gulf  is  wide  enougli.  God  knows ;  relig- 
ious, political,  social,  even  racial  sometimes,  in  the 
far  back  part  of  it ;  it  is  not  so  wide,  it  appears,  but 


308  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

charity  can  bridge  it  across — the  wonderful  love  of 
the  poor  for  the  poor  which  is  the  best  sort  of  char- 
ity there  is  in  the  world.  I  felt  that  I  wanted  to 
know  something  more  of  these  neighbours,  the  boys 
who  worked  early  and  worked  late  to  save  the 
widow's  hay  for  her  and  bring  home  the  widow's 
turf. 

"Who  are  they?"  I  asked. 

"  It's  the  Careys,"  she  said.  "  Who  else  would  it 
be?  They're  the  only  neighbours  I  have,  for  this  is 
a  backward  place  and  lonely. ' 

"  Is  it  Peter  Carey?"  I  asked,  "  and  his  brother 
Affie?" 

"  It  is.  Sorra  the  better  boys  than  them  you'd 
find  anywhere  and  it's  often  I  do  be  thanking  God 
that  I  have  them.  There's  many  a  one  wouldn't  do 
the  half  what  they  do ;  and,  what's  more,  they  don't 
begrudge  it.  Was  I  telling  you  about  Peter — that's 
the  eldest  of  them — the  time  my  cow  died  on  me 
the  day  after  the  Christmas?  It's  her  calf  I  have 
within  in  the  house  with  me  this  minute,  keeping 
the  creature  warm  the  way  I'll  be  able  to  rear  her 
with  the  help  of  God.  I  was  not  telling  you,  for  I 
didn't  see  you  since.  Well,  Peter  Carey — " 

I  suppose  Peter  Carey  and  his  brother  Affie  will 
be  put  in  prison  some  day  on  account  of  their  share 
in  "  the  trouble  that  does  be  in  it."  Their  names 
will  be  bandied  about  by  politicians  who  will  want 
to  have  them  prosecuted  or  will  want  to  worry  some 
one  for  prosecuting  them.  It  will  be  cattle  driv- 


THE  CAREYS  309 

ing,  or  boycotting,  or  what  the  police  sergeant  calls 
"worse"  that  they  will  be  accused  of;  and  they 
will  not  have  the  blessing  of  their  church  when  the 
time  comes  because  they  have  never  attended  prop- 
erly to  their  religious  duties.  Nevertheless  I  dis- 
agree with  the  philosophy  which  regards  their  sin 
as  less  venial  than  drinking,  and  I  think  that  some- 
where there  will  be  another  judgment  pronounced 
on  Peter  and  Affie.  The  widow's  turf,  and  the  hay, 
and  the  dying  cow  will  be  remembered  there;  per- 
haps even  the  daring  will  be  counted  for  a  kind  of 
righteousness,  the  righteousness  of  blind  men  try- 
ing to  go  straight  through  a  world  whose  ways  are 
tortuous. 


XXL— THIS  LOST  LAND 

THE  scene  was  quite  a  usual  one.  I  suppose 
that  the  like  of  it  might  have  been  found  in  a 
hundred  places  that  same  afternoon :  in  England,  in 
Scotland,  and  here  in  Ireland,  with  no  very  notice- 
able differences. 

There  was  sunshine  and  a  green  lawn  with  a  ten- 
nis net  stretched  across  it.  Men,  most  of  them 
young  and  more  or  less  athletic,  in  white  flannels, 
striking  at  flying  white  balls;  women  in  summer 
frocks,  also  white,  with  pink  or  blue  hats,  all  of 
them  gay.  They,  too,  struck  eagerly  at  the  flying 
white  balls.  Two  groups  of  spectators,  some  seated 
on  chairs  at  one  side  of  the  lawn  and  obviously  very 
much  interested  in  the  fate  of  the  white  balls  and 
the  powers  of  the  strikers;  players  themselves,  the 
members  of  this  group,  competitors  in  the  tourna- 
ment which  was  in  progress.  Others,  a  separate 
group,  less  interested  or  quite  indifferent,  the  local 
aristocracy,  with  an  air  of  being  a  little  afraid  of 
compromising  their  reputation  for  social  aloofness 
by  mingling  with  the  baser  folks  who  congregated 
at  the  other  side  of  the  lawn. 

In  the  background  there  is  a  house  and  a  gravel 
sweep.  There  are  tables  on  the  gravel  spread  with 
white  cloths,  covered  with  plates  of  cake  and  bread 

310 


THIS  LOST  LAND  311 

and  butter.  A  busy  hostess,  very  eager  to  make  her 
guests  happy,  pours  out  tea.  A  few  of  us  stand 
round  her  and  drink  the  tea. 

I  am  most  fortunate.  I  find  myself  beside  a  very 
charming  lady  with  blue  eyes,  and  she  is  kind 
enough  to  be  conversational  and  pleasant.  Her 
smiles  are  quite  worth  winning,  and  I,  who  am  a 
dull  dog  on  whom  pretty  people  rarely  smile,  am 
grateful.  I  really  try  to  listen  attentively  to  what 
she  says. 

"  I  was  down  in  Kerry  last  week,  and  so  I  missed 
the  Horse  Show.  It  was  most  unlucky,  for  I  had 
a  new  hat  especially  for  the  occasion." 

The  Horse  Show  is  a  great  function.  It  is  the 
great  function  of  Irish  society.  It  is  held  in  Dublin 
and  every  self-respecting  man  or  woman  in  the  coun- 
try tries  to  be  present  at  it.  I  murmured  condo- 
lences, a  little  insincerely,  for  I  have  missed  the 
Horse  Show  so  often  as  to  have  become  callous 
about  my  loss.  Also  I  never  on  any  single  occasion 
was  fortunate  enough  to  have  a  new  hat  especially 
for  it. 

"  Game,"  shouts  an  umpire  from  his  table  on  the 
lawn.  "  Five  games  to  four." 

There  is  a  clapping  of  hands  among  the  inter- 
ested spectators  and  a  turning  of  heads  in  the  other 
group.  I  found  myself  speculating  on  the  nature 
of  aristocracies.  Why  are  some  people  superior  to 
common  delights  ?  The  attitude  cannot  be  exciting. 
It  must,  one  would  think,  be  actually  boring. 


312  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

I  suppose  there  must  be  compensations  which  I  do 
not  understand.  Meanwhile  there  is  desperate  strik- 
ing of  flying  white  balls  and  I  gather  that  the  umpire 
will  soon  make  another  proclamation — "  Five  games 
all " — and  there  will  be  more  applause.  My  com- 
panion is  telling  me  about  the  trains  in  Kerry  and 
expressing  contempt  for  them.  I  have  never  been 
in  a  Kerry  train,  but  I  am  willing  to  take  her  word 
for  it  that  they  go  very  slowly.  Ah !  it  is  as  I  antici- 
pated. The  umpire  has  shouted  again  and  the  match 
does  stand  five  games  all.  There  is  a  great  clapping 
of  hands.  The  local  aristocracy,  several  men  and 
women  of  it,  seizes  the  opportunity  for  making  a 
move  towards  tea. 

"  But  there's  one  advantage  about  a  slow  train. 
You  are  able  to  see  the  country  as  you  go  along." 

I  agree,  and  watch  the  progress  of  our  great  peo- 
ple across  the  lawn.  It  is  a  pity  that  so  few  women 
can  walk.  I  wonder  if  we  men  would  make  as  bad 
an  attempt  if  we  were  obliged  to  wear  petticoats. 

"  There  was  a  great  stretch  of  bog,"  said  my  com- 
panion, "  miles  of  it,  grey,  you  know,  with  patches 
of  brown,  where  the  turf  stacks  stood,  and  even 
they  looked  greyish  because  it  was  raining.  I  never 
saw  such  desolation." 

I  am  listening.  The  description  of  the  Kerry  bog 
goes  on.  I  fill  it  in  from  my  imagination.  There 
was  not  a  house  in  sight,  nor  a  man  nor  a  beast,  just 
the  grey  bog  and  the  misty  rain;  flat  with  not  a 
hillock;  a  pool  here  and  there  where  the  turf  had 


THIS  LOST  LAND  313 

been  cut  away,  but  no  river  or  stream.  There  were 
three  trees  standing  close  to  each  other  in  a  straight 
line  rising  out  of  the  bog  and  breaking  the  intoler- 
able grey  of  the  low  sky.  I  see  the  whole  thing 
as  she  saw  it  out  of  the  window  of  the  train  which 
went  slowly. 

"  The  middle  tree  was  taller  than  the  other  two ; 
and  they  reminded  me  of  the  crucifixion." 

She  laughed,  with  a  sort  of  shame-faced  merri- 
ment as  she  said  this.  I  felt  a  sudden  sense  of 
relief.  She  had  gone  perilously  near  the  abominable 
thing.  If  she  had  not  laughed  she  would  have  con- 
fessed herself  a  sentimentalist.  Heaven  forbid  that 
an  Irish  girl,  a  girl  with  large  blue  eyes  and  charm- 
ing manners,  would  so  forget  all  that  is  honourable 
and  of  good  report,  should  so  defile  herself  as  to 
sentimentalise  at  a  tennis  tournament  with  a  tea- 
cup in  her  hand.  Nevertheless  she  saw  and  felt 
what  we  all  see  and  feel  now  and  then,  what  we 
escape  from  only  because  the  gods  have  granted  us 
the  ability  to  laugh. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  will  be  running  about  the 
lawn,  striking,  I  hope  skilfully,  at  the  flying  white 
balls,  and  the  umpire  will  be  encouraging  her  with 
shouts  of  "  Forty-fifteen,"  or  some  other  frivolous 
combination  of  long  suffering  numbers.  No  one 
will  then  suspect  her  of  having  seen  the  vision  any 
more  than  I  suspect  the  eager  group  of  onlookers 
or  the  other  men  and  women  who  have  now  achieved 
their  tea,  of  having  seen  or  having  felt.  I  miss  the 


314  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

end  of  her  experiences  in  Kerry  and  the  reiteration 
of  her  half  mocking  lament  over  the  missing  of  the 
Horse  Show.  I  am  wondering  whether  any  of  us 
really  escape  seeing  the  grey  bogs  of  this  lost  land 
and  the  three  trees  which  remind  us  of  the  crucifix- 
ion and  make  us  laugh  when  we  think  of  them. 


T 


XXII.— MRS.  WILLIAMS 

HE  day  was  wet,  even  for  the  west  of  Ireland, 
unusually  wet.    The  church  offered  a  refuge 
and  I  went  into  it,  leaving  the  muddy  streets,  the 
lowing  cattle,  and  the  heavy  smell  of  a  fair  day  in  a 
little  Connaught  town.    I  found  myself  the  spectator 
of  rites  not  meant  for  me.     Between  twenty  and 
thirty  clergymen,  old  and  young,  were  gathered  in 
the  church  and  listened  to  an  exhortation  delivered 
by  an  elderly  dignitary,  who  spoke,  not  from  the 
regular  pulpit,  but  from  the  lectern.    I  felt  myself 
an  intruder,  an  eavesdropper,  a  spy  upon  the  private 
devotions  of  worthy  men.     But  the  quietness  and 
the  soothing  grey  of  the  church  attracted  me.    I  was 
by  no  means  inclined  to  go  out  again.     I  settled 
myself  in  a  remote  seat  and  compromised  matters 
with  my  sense  of  honour  by  determining  not  to  lis- 
ten to  one  word  Which  was  said.     Unfortunately 
there  was  nothing  in  the  architecture  of  the  church 
to  absorb  my  attention.    From  a  stained  glass  win- 
dow close  beside  me  I  turned  away  my  eyes  lest 
they  should  behold  vanity  or  worse.     The  artist 
had  worked  from  the  photograph  of  a  deceased  fat 
man,  and  had  clad  his  person  in  garments  of  shape 
and  colouring  such  as  must  have  put  his  ghost  to 
the  blush.    Nor  could  I  lay  my  hands  on  anything  to 


315 


316  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

read  except  a  mutilated  hymn-book  printed  in  type 
impossible  to  my  eyes  in  the  light  of  that  dreary 
afternoon.  Then,  by  good  luck,  I  noticed  that  the 
book-rest  in  front  of  me  was  scribbled  over. 

I  leaned  forward  and  read.  Sissy  Foster  had  writ- 
ten her  name  in  a  sprawling  schoolchild's  hand, 
digging  with  a  sharp  pencil  into  the  soft  pine  wood. 
She  must  have  been  about  twelve  years  old  when 
she  wrote,  beguiling,  perhaps,  the  tediousness  of  the 
Litany.  The  "  Sissy  "  gave  me  a  clue  to  her.  She 
was,  so  the  name  or  title  seemed  to  indicate,  the 
eldest  of  a  family,  the  prematurely  grave  little 
mother  of  a  tribe  of  small  brothers,  who  had  learned, 
each  in  turn,  to  lisp  the  recognition  of  relationship. 
At  last,  she  herself  had  forgotten  that  she  was 
really  Muriel  or  Maud,  and  had  accepted  as  name 
and  description  alike  the  pretty  Sissy.  I  pictured 
her  a  gentle  little  maiden,  with  long,  straight,  fair 
hair,  unnaturally  careful,  for  poor  mother's  sake, 
of  each  clean  pinafore.  A  little  further  along  the 
book-rest  I  came  to  her  again  as  Cis  Foster.  The 
handwriting,  formed  and  fashionably  square,  wit- 
nessed that  she  was  older,  seventeen  years  old  per- 
haps, or  eighteen ;  not  much  more,  for  the  Litany 
still  evidently  bored  her.  The  changed  spelling  of 
the  name  told  me  something  about  her.  To  the 
Miss  Foster  of  that  date  the  younger  brothers  were 
boisterous  schoolboys,  troublesome  creatures  with 
tops  and  marbles  and  rough  games.  She  was  Sissy 
no  more,  but  Cis,  which  is  a  name  derived  from 


MRS.  WILLIAMS  317 

Cecilia,  and  full  of  romantic  possibilities.  Cecilia, 
at  full  length,  is  a  stately  maiden,  aloof  a  little  from 
common  things,  to  be  wooed  gloriously  by  one  in 
the  guise  of  a  prince.  Cis  smacks  more  of  the 
world,  of  gay  laughter,  of  daring  attractiveness. 
Cis  is  the  mistress  of  arts  and  wiles.  She  sports 
with  the  hearts  of  men.  Miss  Foster  vacillated  be- 
tween the  two  ideals,  and  I  have  no  doubt — it  was 
springtime  then — wore  a  pink  cotton  frock,  ironed 
stiffly,  wonderfully  frilled. 

Beside  Cis  Foster  was  another  name  in  another 
writing,  John  Emmanuel  Williams.  He  used  to 
come  there  on  Sunday  evenings  when  Mrs.  Foster, 
growing  oldish  now  and  a  little  worn,  stayed  at 
home;  when  Mr.  Foster  smoked  his  pipe  with  a 
secure  feeling  that  one  churchgoing  of  a  Sunday 
was  enough  for  any  man;  when  the  boys,  young 
scamps,  were  birds'-nesting  in  the  woods.  Then 
Cis  Foster  and  John  Emmanuel  Williams  sat  to- 
gether, sharing  the  mutilated  hymn-book,  and  the 
evening  sun  shone  on  them  through  the  wide  west 
door.  Cis  had  a  wonderful  new  pink  frock  in  those 
days,  and  her  cheeks  glowed  with  a  brighter  pink. 
Then  while  prayers  were  being  said  for  King 
Edward — this  was  in  the  early  days  of  his  reign — 
John  Emmanuel  wrote  his  name  and  Cis  watched 
him.  Further  down  the  book-rest,  in  the  very  cor- 
ner came  one  more  inscription.  The  handwriting 
was  Miss  Foster's,  but  the  words  she  wrote  were 
"  Mrs.  Williams."  This  must  have  been  an  experi- 


318  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

ment.  After  marriage,  if  she  wrote  at  all,  she  would 
have  written  "  Cis  Williams,"  not  "  Mrs.  Williams." 
Besides,  after  marriage  a  careful  churchwarden 
would  have  moved  her  and  John  Emmanuel  into  a 
pew  of  their  own.  The  "  Mrs.  Williams  "  must  have 
been  a  delighted  dip  into  the  future,  a  daring  attempt 
to  realise  beforehand  anticipated  joys.  Perhaps 
John  Emmanuel  watched  her  while  she  wrote, 
blushed  when  she  blushed,  and  afterwards  muti- 
lated the  hymn-book  in  search  of  material  for  little 
notes  during  sermon  time.  It  must  have  been 
autumn  then,  and  in  the  half-lit  church  no  prying 
eyes  would  see  the  passing  of  the  folded  paper  or 
note  the  lingering  touches  of  the  hands. 

The  service,  the  special  clerical  devotions, — not 
that  evensong  in  the  early  days  of  King  Edward, — 
ended  abruptly,  and  the  clergy  slipped  past  me 
towards  the  door.  I  joined  myself  to  the  one  who 
walked  last,  guessing,  by  something  of  a  proprietor's 
mien  about  him,  that  he  was  the  proper  pastor  of 
the  church.  I  offered  him  a  share  of  my  umbrella 
when  we  got  outside,  and  then  while  he  thanked  me, 
asked  my  question. 

"  Did  Cis  Foster,  who  used  to  be  Sissy  Foster 
when  she  was  a  child,  marry  John  Emmanuel 
Williams  in  the  end?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  married  them.  He's  a  groom 
up  at  the  big  house.  That  was  six  years  ago.  She 
has  four  fine  boys  of  her  own  now." 

"  Ah,"  I  said,  "  she'll  know  how  to  manage  them 


MRS.  WILLIAMS  319 

after  all  the  practice  she  had  with  her  young 
brothers." 

"She  does,"  said  the  rector  smiling.  Then  he 
turned  on  me  abruptly.  "  But  how  do  you  come 
to  know  all  about  them?  Surely  you're  a  stranger 
here?" 

"  I  don't  actually  know,"  I  said.  "  I  merely  guess. 
I  suppose  she  has  given  up  wearing  pink  cotton 
frocks  in  summer  time  ?  " 

"Did  she  ever  wear  pink  cotton  frocks?"  he 
asked.  "  I  don't  remember." 

"  She  certainly  did,"  I  said,  "  in  1903  or  there- 
abouts. You  must  have  been  very  unobservant; 
but  of  course  the  church  was  rather  dark.  I  sup- 
pose she  has  a  new  hymn-book  now  ?  " 

"  I  gave  her  one  myself,"  said  the  rector,  "  the 
day  she  was  married." 

"You  couldn't,"  I  said,  "have  given  her  any- 
thing she  wanted  more.  There  are  only  about  four- 
teen pages  left  in  the  old  one." 


XXIII.—"  WELL  DONE  " 

HE  lay  on  the  bed,  a  shrunken,  feeble  figure  of  a 
man,  with  a  withered,  weather-scarred  face, 
and  toil-scarred  hands.  Over  him  was  a  quilt  of 
crazy  patchwork,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  coloured 
scraps  sewn  together,  a  monument  of  wonderfully 
patient  toil,  made  thirty  years  before  by  a  wife 
who  is  dead  a  long  time  now.  Her  works  live 
after  her — the  quilt  which  covered  him,  the  girl 
who  stood  by  the  fireplace,  at  whose  birth  the 
mother  died,  John,  the  first-born,  four  other  girls, 
and  Thomas,  who  stokes  the  engine  of  a  steamer 
on  the  St.  Lawrence  river.  Now  "  himself,"  hus- 
band, father,  widower,  lay  dying.  Outside  in  the 
kitchen  John  sat  over  the  fire  and  waited,  a  griz- 
zled, unemotional,  strong  man  of  forty-five.  The 
clergyman  sat  by  the  bedside.  Near  at  hand  was 
a  table,  standing  unsteadily  on  the  pitted  earthen 
floor.  It  was  spread  with  a  white  cloth,  and  on  it 
were  little  silver  vessels.  Across  the  end  of  it  lay 
the  clergyman's  surplice.  The  old  man  had  received 
the  Sacrament  for  the  last  time,  the  Sacrament  of 
which  he  had  partaken  a  thousand  times  before, 
kneeling  at  the  altar  rails. 

"  If  it's  pleasing  to  your  reverence,"  he  said,  "  I'd 


320 


WELL  DONE  321 

like  to  say  over  the  Belief  along  with  you  the  way 
we  did  be  saying  it  at  prayers  in  the  church." 

The  clergyman  nodded.  He  began  the  Apostle's 
Creed,  and  recited  it  clause  by  clause.  The  old  man 
followed  him.  The  girl  at  the  fireplace  stood  rig- 
idly upright,  and  her  lips  moved.  She  too  was  say- 
ing the  familiar  words.  John,  in  the  kitchen,  rose 
from  his  stool  and  stood  until  the  voices  ceased. 
There  was  silence  for  a  time  and  then  the  old  man 
spoke  again. 

"  Sarah,"  he  said,  "  let  you  go  out  of  this  and 
wait  along  with  John  until  I  call  for  you.  There's 
something  I  want  his  Reverence  to  do  for  me." 

The  girl  left  the  room  obediently.  The  ill-fitting 
door  was  closed  behind  her.  The  old  man  watched 
her  go,  glanced  at  the  door,  and  then,  turning  him- 
self with  difficulty,  leaned  towards  the  edge  of  the 
bed.  He  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"It  would  be  right,"  he  said,  "that  I'd  settle 
about  the  farm  and  the  stock  and  the  bit  of  money 
I  have  before  I  go." 

"It  would,"  said  the  clergyman,  "every  man 
ought  to  do  that." 

"  There's  a  bottle  of  ink  and  a  pen  there  on  the 
chimney  piece,  and  paper  along  with  them.  If  it 
wouldn't  be  troubling  you  too  much,  I'd  be  thankful 
if  you'd  get  them  and  write  down  what  I'd  be  telling 
you.  Yourself  would  know  how  it  ought  to  be 
done  so  as  there'll  be  no  trouble  after." 

It  was  no  strange  task  for  the  clergyman.     He 


322  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

had  made  a  hundred  such  wills  before.  His  knowl- 
edge of  legal  phraseology  was  scanty,  but  no  one 
afterwards  disputed  the  validity  of  what  he  wrote. 

"  Let  the  farm  go  to  John,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  The  land  there  is  here  and  the  bit  behind  at  Bun- 
dorragh.  And  let  the  stock  go  along  with  it,  only 
the  young  heifer.  I'd  like  Sarah  would  have  the 
young  heifer,  and  the  right  to  her  grass  for  as  long 
as  she's  in  it ;  and  I  hope  that  won't  be  long,  for  it's 
near  time  she  was  getting  married.  I'd  like  if  John 
would  make  a  way  across  the  side  of  the  hill  where 
I  cleared  the  furze  bushes,  so  as  a  cart  could  get  in 
off  the  road.  It's  what  I  had  in  my  mind  to  do 
this  long  time,  only  my  strength  went  from  me. 
The  place  is  backward  the  way  it  is,  us  not  being 
able  to  get  as  much  as  the  turf  into  it  without  we'd 
carry  it  on  asses,  and  that's  a  drawback  to  any 
house.  There'll  be  no  need  for  you  to  write  that 
down,  your  Reverence.  John  will  do  it  when  you 
bid  him." 

"  He  will.     John's  a  good  boy." 

"  And  he's  well  fit  to  do  it.  It  took  me  the  best 
part  of  ten  years  before  I  got  the  hill  rightly  clear, 
working  at  it  odd  times  when  there  wouldn't  be 
much  doing,  and  hard  work  it  was.  When  I  started 
on  it  it's  hardly  ever  a  sheep  would  be  able  to  pick 
a  bit  there  the  way  the  bushes  was  so  thick." 

His  eyes  strayed  to  the  window  as  he  spoke. 
The  hill  lay  opposite  to  the  house,  clean,  and  now 
brown  where  John  had  ploughed  it  up. 


WELL  DONE  323 

"  There's  fifty  pounds  in  the  bank,"  the  old  man 
went  on.  "  Let  Sarah  have  it,  all  but  ten  pounds. 
John  will  be  getting  a  girl  with  a  fortune,  be  the 
same  more  or  less,  when  I'm  gone  from  him,  and  he 
has  the  place  to  himself.  The  rest  of  the  girls  got 
their  share  when  they  married,  and  Sarah  has  a 
right  to  what's  in  it  now,  all  but  ten  pounds." 

"What  about  Lizzie?"  said  the  clergyman. 
"  Lizzie's  not  married,  is  she  ?  " 

"  Lizzie's  beyond  in  America.  She  had  her  chance 
like  the  rest  of  them.  She  had  more  chances  than 
the  rest  of  them,  but  she  was  stubborn.  She 
wouldn't  marry  the  boy  I  had  laid  out  for  her ;  and 
after  that  she  wouldn't  marry  another,  or  a  third  on 
the  top  of  him.  She  had  it  in  her  mind  to  go  to 
America,  and  it's  there  she's  gone.  Let  Sarah  get 
the  money.  It's  her  has  the  best  right  to  it;  all 
but  ten  pounds." 

The  clergyman  waited,  pen  in  hand.  He  guessed 
the  destiny  of  the  ten  pounds. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  Lizzie  to  be  thinking  that  I  had 
any  ill-will  at  her,  for  I  haven't.  It  wouldn't  be 
right  for  me  now  that  I'm  not  long  for  this  world. 
She  went  against  me,  and  I  told  her  she'd  be  better 
off  out  of  this,  and  not  to  be  standing  in  the  way  of 
her  sisters,  when  I  could  see  plain  that  she'd  never 
marry,  for  the  boys  I  got  were  decent  boys,  with 
good  homes  to  offer  her.  I'd  like  she'd  have  the 
ten  pounds,  the  way  she'd  know  I've  no  ill-will  at 
her.  But  let  her  not  come  home  to  get  it.  Let 


324  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

your  Reverence  send  it  out  to  her.  She's  better 
where  she  is  now  she's  there.  If  she  was  back  she'd 
be  only  upsetting  Sarah's  mind,  and  maybe  taking 
her  out  along  with  her." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  the  clergyman. 

"  It  is  all,  and  if  you  have  it  written  down  I'd  be 
thankful  if  you'd  keep  it  by  you  till  I'm  gone,  and 
then  see  that  things  is  done  according  to  what  I'm 
after  telling  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  wish  me  to  be  your 
executor  ?  " 

"  I  leave  it  to  your  Reverence  to  settle  that. 
There  isn't  one  in  the  country  I'd  trust  sooner  than 
yourself.  And  now  that  I'm  easy  in  my  mind  about 
the  land  and  the  money,  there's  one  thing  more 
that  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  about.  Are  you  listen- 
ing to  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  surely." 

"  Well,  it's  what  I  wouldn't  tell  to  e'er  a  man  only 
yourself,  but  I've  been  meaning  to  tell  you  this  long 
time.  It  was  six  weeks  ago  or  maybe  more,  any 
way  it  wasn't  long  before  the  Christmas.  It  was 
the  first  Sunday  I  gave  up  going  in  to  prayers,  and 
I  was  always  a  good  one  to  go  till  I  wasn't  fit  to 
face  the  hill  on  the  way  home  out  of  the  town  with- 
out sitting  down  maybe  twice  to  get  my  breath ; 
and  that's  what  I  would  be  ashamed  to  do.  John 
was  at  prayers,  and  Sarah  along  with  him,  and  that 
was  the  way  I  came  to  be  alone  by  myself  in  the 
house.  I  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  and  I  was  think- 


WELL  DONE  325 

ing  of  the  hill  beyond  there,  and  the  way  it  did  be 
covered  with  furze  bushes  so  as  a  sheep  would 
hardly  pick  a  bit  in  between  them.  I  was  going 
back  over  the  job  I  had  clearing  it,  and  terrible 
work  it  was  getting  the  roots  hoked  up.  It  would 
have  suited  me  better  to  be  reading  my  Bible  when 
I  couldn't  go  in  to  prayers,  but  what  I'm  telling 
you  is  the  way  it  was,  and  what  was  in  my  mind 
at  the  time.  All  of  a  sudden  there  was  hands  laid 
on  my  head  from  behind  like,  the  way  I  wouldn't 
see  who  was  there.  Nor  I  didn't  try  to  see,  for 
there  was  a  kind  of  a  dread  on  me  knowing  well  I 
was  alone  in  the  house.  I  didn't  say  a  word,  but 
no  more  did  He,  only  there  did  be  a  wonderful 
content  on  me.  It's  what  I  never  told  to  e'er  a  one 
before,  and  I  wouldn't  be  telling  it  to  you  now, 
only  that  I'd  be  easier  in  my  mind  if  your  Rever- 
ence knew.  I  could  know  by  the  feel  of  the  hands 
on  me  that  it  was  Himself,  and  He  was  pleased  and 
I'd  a  right  to  be  content.  I  was  content  too,  and  I 
knew  that  I  hadn't  long  to  stay  here.  I  knew  my 
strength  wouldn't  come  back  to  me,  and  that  it 
would  have  to  be  John  that  would  make  the  way 
across  the  side  of  the  hill  out  into  the  road.  But  I 
was  contented  in  myself,  with  the  feel  of  the  hands 
on  my  head.  Tell  me  this,  now,  your  Reverence, 
for  it's  yourself  would  know  the  like  if  anybody 
would,  was  it  Him  that  came  to  me  that  time?" 
"  I  haven't  the  least  doubt  but  it  was." 


326  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  It's  wonderful,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  was 
thinking  myself  that  it  could  only  be  Him.  There's 
ne'er  another  only  Him  would  do  it,  and  this  the 
backward  kind  of  place  that  it  is,  and  no  way  into  it 
off  the  road,  without  you'd  be  climbing  fences  and 
walls.  It's  wonderful !  And  hadn't  I  the  right  to  be 
contented  when  I  could  tell  by  the  feel  of  the  hands 
on  me  that  He  was  pleased;  though  I  wouldn't  say 
there  was  much  about  me  to  please  Him?  For  it's 
not  easy  for  a  man  to  be  attending  to  his  religious 
duties  the  way  he  should  when  he  has  a  long  family 
to  rear,  and  herself  gone  from  him  with  them  young, 
and  the  like  of  that  hill  with  the  furze  bushes  on  it 
opposite  the  house." 


XXIV.— BIDDY  CANAVAN 

fact  is,"  said  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
that  she  can't  wash  one  little  bit,  and  there's 
no  use  talking  to  her." 

I  was  complaining  of  the  condition  of  a  flannel 
shirt  which  had  returned  to  me  in  a  curiously  greasy 
state,  considerably  shrunk,  and  smelling  strongly  of 
soap.  I  felt  bitterly  on  the  subject,  because  the 
shirt  was  a  new  one  and  I  had  hoped  the  sort  of 
things  which  no  one  but  a  fool  does  hope  about 
flannel  shirts. 

"  Why  don't  you  dismiss  her  then  and  get  some 
one  who  can  wash  ?  " 

"  She  has  three  small  children,  and  her  husband 
is  dead.  I  really  don't  know  what  would  happen 
if  she  lost  her  work  here." 

Biddy  Canavan  earns  one-and-sixpence  a  week 
from  us  for  one  day's  work.  She  also  has  a  shilling 
a  week  as  outdoor  relief  from  the  Union.  That,  so 
far  as  we  can  find  out,  is  her  whole  income,  and 
she  lives  on  it,  she  and  the  three  small  children.  I 
do  not  know  how  the  thing  is  done,  but  plainly  it 
would  be  much  more  difficult  to  do  if  the  one-and- 
sixpence  were  taken  away  from  her.  I  could  not 
press  for  her  dismissal.  I  smelled  the  shirt  again 
and  felt  that  some  steps  must  be  taken. 

327 


328  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

"  Why  not  make  her  go  up  to  the  Technical  School 
and  learn  how  to  wash  ?  "  I  said.  "  Here  we  are 
paying  enormous  sums  for  the  upkeep  of  the  Techni- 
cal School  and  we  can't  get  a  shirt  washed  decently." 

It  appeared  that  this  course  had  been  suggested 
to  Biddy;  that  she  had  promised,  even  pledged  her- 
self with  oaths,  to  go  to  the  school  and  learn  the 
laundress's  art.  But  she  had  not  gone.  Week  after 
week  the  promises  had  been  renewed.  Week  after 
week  they  had  been — broken  is  a  wrong  word  to  use. 
Biddy  Canavan  does  nothing  so  decisive  and  definite 
as  to  break  a  promise.  Week  after  week  the  prom- 
ises had  been  neglected.  I  touched  the  shirt  again 
and  shivered  at  the  disgusting,  matted  greasiness 
of  it. 

"  You  must  put  it  to  her  strongly,"  I  said. 
"  Threaten  her  that  you  will  dismiss  her  next  time 
you  find  out  that  she  has  not  been  to  the  Technical 
School." 

"  I  wish  you'd  do  it  yourself.  I  really  can't  do 
it  any  more." 

"  You're  afraid  of  her,"  I  said. 

"  No,  I'm  not.  If  she  abused  me,  or  was  impu- 
dent, or  made  any  sort  of  excuse  I  could  speak  to 
her,  but  she  simply  cowers  and  looks  at  me  with 
the  eyes  of  a  dog  which  expects  to  be  beaten.  If 
she  speaks  at  all  she  says  she's  very  sorry — and  I 
can't,  I  simply  can't,  scold  her." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said.  "  I'll  speak  to  her  myself 
to-day.  That  kind  of  woman  must  be  shaken  up  for 


BIDDY  CANAVAN  329 

her  own  good.    What  time  does  she  come  here? 

"  About  ten  o'clock." 

"  For  the  future,"  I  said,  "  she  shall  come  at  six. 
A  day's  work  ought  to  begin  at  six." 

There  was  something  said  about  hot  water  which 
I  did  not  distinctly  catch. 

"  Or  eight,"  I  said,  "  Eight,  or  nine  at  the  latest. 
Certainly  before  ten.  I'll  make  that  clear  to  her 
this  morning." 

I  did  speak  to  Biddy  Canavan.  I  spoke  as  no 
man  ought  to  speak  to  a  woman,  as  I  never  spoke 
to  a  woman  before  and  never  intend  to  speak  to 
one  again.  I  wore  the  flannel  shirt  in  order  to  keep 
my  temper  up  to  the  boiling  point.  I  writhed  in  it, 
and  I  loosed  barbed  words  at  Biddy  Canavan.  She 
utterly  defeated  me.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  peculiarly 
soft  brown  colour,  very  like  a  red  setter's  eyes,  but 
much  larger,  moister  and  more  pathetic.  Her  face 
expressed  a  settled,  helpless  melancholy,  and  along 
with  that  a  sort  of  trustful  and  affectionate  confi- 
dence in  me.  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she 
regarded  me  as  a  kind  of  Providence ;  that  my  deci- 
sions might  seem  severe,  but  would  be  accepted  as 
just  and  altogether  right  without  murmuring.  She 
drooped  all  over.  Her  head  drooped,  her  arms 
drooped.  Her  attitude  reminded  me  of  that  particu- 
larly contemptible  kind  of  tree  called  a  weeping 
willow.  She  had  no  energy  or  she  would  have 
fought ;  no  self-respect,  or  she  would  have  resented 
what  I  said.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes  I  felt 


330  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

inclined  to  speak  more  gently.  Then  I  fled  from 
the  kitchen.  If  I  had  not  fled  I  should  have  apolo- 
gised to  Biddy  Canavan — apologised  abjectly  and 
invited  her  to  come  and  wash  in  my  house  two  days 
every  week.  I  should  very  likely  have  offered  to 
buy  more  flannel  shirts  if  it  were  a  real  pleasure  to 
her  to  spoil  them.  I  should  have  done  all  this 
though  the  fragrance  of  the  abominable  garment  I 
was  wearing  was  in  my  nostrils. 

The  next  day  was  my  birthday.  In  our  house- 
hold birthdays  are  high  festivals.  We  lay  gifts  on 
the  happy  individual's  plate  at  breakfast  time  and 
we  have  a  large  rich  cake  for  tea.  When  I  came 
downstairs  I  found  the  usual  number  of  brown 
paper  parcels,  and  one  over.  I  had  reckoned  on  a 
gift  from  each  member  of  the  family.  I  was  puzzled 
by  the  extra  parcel,  which  was  larger  than  any  of 
the  others  and  addressed  in  a  strange  handwriting. 
I  left  it  until  the  last,  for  several  eager  donors  were 
waiting  to  note  my  appreciation  of  their  gifts.  I 
could  not  postpone  the  pleasure  which,  I  hope,  my 
thanks  give.  I  got  through  them  all  in  time,  and 
came  to  the  strange  parcel.  It  was  untidily  pa- 
pered up.  Being  circular  in  shape,  it  must,  I  know, 
have  been  difficult  to  paper.  I  remember  once  try- 
ing to  wrap  up  a  football,  Association  shape,  in 
brown  paper,  on  the  eve  of  another  birthday,  and 
I  could  not  make  it  into  a  tidy  parcel.  I  took  this 
thing  up  and  poised  it  in  my  hand.  It  was  heavy. 
I  opened  it  slowly,  and  discovered  a  cake — a  par- 


BIDDY  CANAVAN  331 

ticularly  noxious-looking  cake.  It  was  the  kind  of 
cake  which  is  to  be  seen  displayed  in  the  windows 
of  cheap  grocery  stores  at  Christmas  time,  made,  I 
am  told,  of  margarine  and  stale  eggs — certainly  of 
gritty  currants.  It  had  sugar  on  top,  hard,  white 
sugar;  and  embedded  in  the  sugar  was  a  highly- 
glazed  green  holly  leaf,  made  of  thin  card-board.  It 
must  have  survived  the  Christmas  trade,  lain  un- 
noticed and  hidden  in  some  obscure  nook,  been 
discovered  at  a  season  of  spring  cleaning  or  stock- 
taking. Pinned  on  to  it  was  a  card,  a  Christmas 
card,  plainly  another  survival.  It  bore  the 
inscription : 

"  For  the  Master's  birthday,  from  Biddy  Canavan, 
with  kind  regards." 

I  was  staggered. 

"  I  thought,"  I  said,  "  that  this  woman  had  three 
starving  children.  I  was  certainly  told  she  had." 

I  received  from  the  whole  family  an  assurance  that 
the  children  did  exist,  had  been  seen  in  the  flesh,  had 
from  time  to  time  been  given  cast-off  garments. 

"  Then  what  on  earth  does  she  mean  by  buying 
a  cake  like  this  and  giving  it  to  me?  Why  doesn't 
she  keep  it  and  feed  her  babies  on  it?  Or  buy  some- 
thing useful  for  them  with  the  money  she  spent  on 
it?  It  must  have  cost  two  shillings.  Even  at  a  cheap 
sale  you  couldn't  get  it  under  one-and-sixpence. 
Send  it  back  to  her  at  once." 

Then  I  realised  that  this  course  at  least  was  im- 
possible. I  had  been  brutal  to  Biddy  Canavan  the 


332  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

day  before.  I  would  not  be  brutal  to  her  again. 
My  words,  words  which  I  still  maintain  were  those 
of  perfectly  righteous  wrath,  came  back  to  me,  rose 
up  and  smote  me,  burnt  into  my  flesh  like  red-hot 
skewers.  I  had  spoken  thus  and  thus;  and  Biddy 
Canavan  had  spent  half  a  week's  income  or  there- 
abouts on  buying  me  a  cake. 

"  What,"  I  asked  helplessly,  "  is  to  be  done  with 
a  woman  like  this?  She  can't  work  and  won't  try 
to.  She's  utterly  inefficient.  She  can't  be  helped  or 
improved  in  any  possible  way.  She's  a  burden  to 
society,  a  menace,  an  actual  menace,  to  the  peace 
of  mind  of  respectable  people  who  wear  flannel 
shirts,  and  she  possesses  in  the  highest  degree  the 
distinctive  virtues  of  Christianity.  She  alone,  of  all 
people  I  have  ever  met,  turns  the  other  cheek  to  the 
smiter  and  deliberately  does  good  to  those  who 
despitefully  use  her.  What  am  I  to  do  with  her 
and  her  cake  ?  " 

It  was  suggested  that  the  cake  should  be  kept 
until  the  summer  holidays.  It  will  not  be  much 
staler  than  it  is,  and  we  shall  have  a  schoolboy 
with  us  then.  Also  that  I,  or  some  one  in  my  place, 
should  take  Biddy  Canavan  by  the  hand,  lead  her 
up  to  the  portals  of  the  Technical  School,  push  her 
in  and  stand  beside  her,  uttering  words  of  encour- 
agement while  she  learns  to  wash. 


XXV.— THE  PRODIGAL 

IT  was  Christmas-eve,  and  the  vicar  paid,  as  he 
always  did  on  that  day,  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Gray. 
She  was  the  widow  of  a  brother  clergyman  and 
lived  on  an  annuity  of  rather  less  than  £50  a  year. 
She  was  so  cheerful  and  contented  that  the  vicar, 
who  was  much  better  off  and  had  endured  no  great 
sorrow  in  his  life,  used  to  go  away  from  her  time 
after  time  greatly  ashamed  of  his  own  habit  of 
grumbling  about  minor  troubles.  His  conversation 
with  Mrs.  Gray  always  turned  on  the  same  subject. 
They  might  begin  with  items  of  local  gossip,  touch 
on  the  character  of  the  curate,  the  way  in  which 
the  latest  mother  in  the  parish  managed  or  mis- 
managed the  latest  babe,  the  eccentricities  of  other 
people's  maid-servants — Mrs.  Gray,  because  of  her 
poverty,  escaped  the  curse  of  servants — and  kindred 
other  topics.  But  they  passed  from  these  very  soon 
and  settled  down  to  the  one  really  interesting  sub- 
ject, the  doings,  rising  fortunes,  and  splendid  char- 
acter of  Leonard  Gray.  He  was  old  Mrs.  Gray's 
only  son.  The  vicar  had  known  him  as  a  boy;  but 
it  was  ten  years  since  he  saw  him,  ten  years  since 
his  mother  saw  him.  Leonard  used  to  write  occa- 
sionally from  Canada.  He  was  in  a  different  part 
of  the  great  Dominion  every  time  he  wrote.  He 

333 


334  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

was  always  doing  well  and  always  on  the  verge  of 
doing  better.  Every  letter  held  out  hopes — indeed, 
certainties  rather  than  hopes— of  a  golden  fortune  in 
the  near  future. 

Mrs.  Gray  pulled  a  chair  up  to  the  fire  and  patted 
into  rotundity  a  cushion  in  the  seat  of  it.  She  poked 
the  fire  into  a  blaze,  and  did  it  with  an  air  of  hearty 
willingness,  though,  as  the  vicar  knew,  Mrs.  Gray's 
fires  were  not  poked  unnecessarily,  coal  being  exor- 
bitantly dear.  Then  they  settled  down  to  talk.  The 
church  organist  had  lately  composed  a  new  tune  to 
a  familiar  hymn,  and  insisted  on  having  it  sung;  but 
even  this  appalling  iniquity  did  not  hold  them  long. 
They  passed  to  Leonard's  latest  letter.  It  was  two 
months  old,  and  came  from  Montreal.  The  vicar 
had  seen  it  before,  and  half  hoped  there  might  have 
been  one  of  later  date.  It  appeared  that  there  was 
not.  He  betrayed  neither  surprise  nor  disappoint- 
ment, but  fell  eagerly  to  the  discussion  of  Leonard's 
plan  of  going  into  partnership  with  a  friend  who 
owned  a  fruit  farm  in  British  Columbia.  It  was  a 
very  good  plan,  so  they  agreed,  and  old  Mrs.  Gray 
flushed  with  pleasure  as  she  reminded  the  vicar  that 
Leonard  had  always  enjoyed  a  country  life  and 
found  happiness  in  simple,  innocent  pursuits. 

"  It's  much  better  for  him,"  she  said,  "  than  rail- 
way engineering.  I'm  glad  he's  given  that  up." 

Leonard,  in  his  last  letter  but  one,  had  repre- 
sented himself  as  employed  in  making  a  new  rail- 
way. It  was  Mrs.  Gray  who  had  promoted  him  to 


THE  PRODIGAL  335 

the  post  of  engineer,  for  which  the  vicar  privately 
doubted  his  qualification.  Mrs.  Gray's  knowledge 
of  the  details  of  a  fruit  farmer's  life  was  small,  the 
vicar's  hardly  greater;  but  between  them  they 
sketched  a  most  attractive  picture.  There  were 
groves  of  golden-fruited  orange  trees,  bright  sun- 
shine, a  pleasant  homestead  of  the  bungalow  type 
in  the  background,  and  Leonard,  bronzed  and  su- 
perlatively healthy,  riding  on  a  grey  cob,  giving 
orders  to  a  contented  band  of  fruit-pickers — Chinese, 
the  vicar  thought  them, — Mrs.  Gray  inclined  to  the 
negro  as  more  picturesque.  It  took  them  an  hour  to 
complete  their  survey  of  Leonard's  estate  and  their 
reckoning  of  Leonard's  happiness.  Then  they  parted 
with  the  usual  banal  Christmas  greeting  on  the 
vicar's  lips  and  a  gentle  reply  from  Mrs.  Gray. 

"  When  God  has  given  me  a  son  like  Leonard," 
she  said ;  "  I  should  be  an  ungrateful  woman  if  my 
Christmas  were  not  happy." 

The  vicar  struggled  home  through  the  rain  along 
a  muddy  road,  taking  half  an  hour  to  make  the 
journey ;  for  Mrs.  Gray's  cottage  is  at  some  distance 
from  the  Vicarage,  and  the  night  falls  early  and  dark 
on  Christmas  Eve.  He  was  in  a  chastened  mood, 
for  he  was  wishing  that  he,  who  was  supposed  to  be 
helping  others  to  be  good,  were  himself  half  as  good 
as  old  Mrs.  Gray,  who  preached  from  no  pulpit.  He 
recovered  a  proper  spirit  of  Christmas  self-satisfac- 
tion over  a  cup  of  tea,  and  cut,  with  a  sense  that 
he  deserved  it,  a  fine  and  sugary  cake.  Then  he 


336  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

was  told  that  a  man  was  standing  in  the  hall  and 
wanted  to  see  him.  He  looked,  so  the  servant  said, 
like  a  tramp.  The  vicar  rose,  fumbled  for  a  six- 
pence in  his  pocket.  Sixpences  ought  not  to  be 
given  to  tramps,  so  the  vicar  had  been  assured  on 
the  authority  of  all  the  wisest  people;  but  it  was 
Christmas  Eve,  and  then  somehow  the  rules  of 
scientific  charity  seem  thin. 

The  man  was  a  tramp  unmistakably,  drink-sodden, 
helpless,  according  to  all  probabilities,  hopeless. 
The  sixpence  would  go  to  the  purchase  of  whisky 
— straight  to  that.  The  vicar  held  it  out  without 
a  word.  What  use  were  any  words?  Instead  of 
taking  it  the  man  put  his  hands  behind  him,  drag- 
ging as  he  did  so  at  the  pitifully  soaked  jacket  which 
he  wore.  The  vicar  started.  The  top  button  of  the 
miserable  garment  lost  its  hold  of  the  worn  but- 
tonhole. The  man's  naked  chest  was  exposed.  He 
owned  no  shirt. 

"  You  don't  know  me,"  he  said.  "  Of  course  you 
don't;  but  I'm  Leonard  Gray." 

The  vicar  opened  his  mouth  to  question  him. 

"You  needn't  go  into  it  all,"  said  the  tramp 
wearily.  "  It's  just  the  usual  thing." 

There  was  no  need  to  ask  what  thing. 

"  But  your  letters "  stammered  the  vicar. 

"Lies,"  he  said,  "  every  damned  word  of  them." 

Then  he  laughed.  "  I'd  have  written  oftener  only 
for  the  price  of  stamps.  The  lies  themselves  were 
cheap  enough." 


THE  PRODIGAL  337 

"  But,"  said  the  vicar,  "  why  have  you  come  home  ? 
How  did  you  get  here?" 

"  In  a  cattle  steamer,"  he  said.  "  I  earned  my 
passage  to  Liverpool  by  feeding  and  beating  the 
wretched  beasts — my  passage  and  ten  shillings.  I 
got  drunk  on  the  ten  shillings,  and  then  I  tramped 
it  here." 

The  vicar  hardened.  The  pity  went  out  of  him. 
The  story  was  too  disgraceful. 

"  You  should  have  stayed  where  you  were,"  he 
said. 

The  man  pulled  up  the  leg  of  his  trousers  with- 
out a  word,  and  the  vicar  turned  suddenly  sick  at 
the  sight  of  a  ghastly  sore. 

Leonard  smiled  grimly  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  chest. 

"  I'm  worse  inside,  I  expect,"  he  said.  "  I  knew 
I  was  done  before  I  started.  This  week  has  pretty 
well  finished  me.  But  I  had  a  fancy  to  see  her 
again.  That's  why  I  came." 

The  look  of  hardness  did  not  leave  the  vicar's 
face  at  once.  He  could  not  help  remembering  old 
Mrs.  Gray's  happiness.  Leonard  spoke  again 
defiantly. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  I've  some  right  to  see  her. 
I  might  have  told  the  truth  and  cadged.  You  and 
she  would  both  have  helped  me  if  I  had,  but  I  didn't 
cadge.  I  lied  right  on  to  the  bitter  end.  And  I 
don't  ask  her  to  see  me.  All  I  want  is  to  see  her. 
I'll  clear  out  to-morrow  and  get  far  enough  off  for 


338  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

her  not  to  hear  about  it  when  I  chuck  it  altogether. 
You  can  manage  that  for  me,  I  suppose." 

"  Leonard,"  said  the  vicar,  "  God  forgive  me  if 
I'm  doing  wrong,  though  I  don't  think  I  am.  I'll 
lie  too.  I've  a  decent  suit  of  clothes  upstairs,  and 
if  the  thing's  humanly  possible  I'll  groom  you  into 
some  semblance  of  respectability  before  to-morrow 
morning.  You  shall  see  her,  and  she  you,  and  we'll 
tell  lies  for  her  together.  If  it  has  to  be  a  gold 
mine  you've  come  home  to  sell,  we'll  swear  to  it. 
Afterwards " 

"  It  won't  be  long.  A  week  at  the  outside  will 
do  the  trick." 

"  Leonard,"  said  the  vicar,"  I'm  not  sure  that  it's 
not  blasphemy,  but  I  am  sure,  or  pretty  nearly  sure, 

that  it's  Christianity .  To-morrow's  Christmas 

Day " 

"Is  it?    I'd  forgotten." 

"  She'll  be  there,  in  church,  at  the  Sacrament. 
If  you  could — beside  her,  Leonard." 

"  You're  the  parson,"  he  said.  "  You  run  that 
show.  If  you  let  me " 

"I'll  take  the  risk,"  said  the  vicar.  "After  all 
you  did  lie  to  her.  That's  something  to  the  good." 

So  old  Mrs.  Gray  had  a  happy  Christmas,  excit- 
edly happy.  The  sorrow  came  afterwards,  ten  days 
later.  But  her  heart  cherishes  the  memory  of  a 
good  son. 


XXVI.— THE  FATE  OF  JOHN  GOODENOUGH 

I  THINK  very  kindly  of  John  Goodenough  now 
that  he  is  gone.  He  was  a  man  of  many  vir- 
tues. No  one  was  ever  more  imperturbably  good- 
tempered  than  John.  Neither  disappointment  nor 
prolonged  ill-luck  dimmed  the  smiles  with  which  he 
faced  life.  Insults  which  would  have  driven  other 
men  into  frenzies  of  passion  did  not  move  John  in 
the  slightest.  He  was  open-hearted  and  generous; 
ever  ready,  too  ready,  to  extend  his  hospitality  to 
acquaintances  and  friends.  Life  was  valuable  to 
John,  chiefly,  I  think,  on  account  of  the  opportuni- 
ties it  afforded  him  of  doing  kind  acts  to  other 
people.  He  was  full  of  admiration  for  the  characters 
and  attainments  of  his  friends  and  had  a  low  opin- 
ion, in  fact,  had  no  opinion  at  all,  of  his  own  merits. 
I  cannot  help  feeling  sorry  that  he  is  dead. 

I  first  met  him  two  years  ago  when  he  came  to 
reside  in  this  neighbourhood.  He  attached  himself 
to  me  at  once  and  up  to  the  very  last  showed  a  warm 
affection  for  me  which  was  wholly  undeserved.  In 
the  end  it  was  this  affection  which  caused  his  death. 
He  used  to  meet  me  every  morning,  very  often 
going  far  out  of  his  proper  way,  in  order  to  secure 
a  chat  with  me.  I  changed  my  habits  of  life,  altered 


339 


340  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

my  accustomed  hours  for  doing  things,  took  strange 
circuitous  routes  to  places  which  I  wanted  to  reach 
in  order  to  avoid  John.  I  sometimes  succeeded  in 
avoiding  him  for  a  day  or  two,  but  he  always  found 
me  in  the  end,  greeted  me  with  the  same  cheery 
smile,  and  talked  to  me  with  the  same  abundant 
fluency.  He  used  to  invite  me  to  spend  long  quiet 
evenings  with  him  in  his  house,  and  I  spent  many. 

There  was  no  way  of  escaping  these  quiet  even- 
ings; for  if  I  said  I  was  engaged  on  Tuesday  he 
suggested  Wednesday.  If  I  told  him  a  lie  about 
Wednesday  he  went  on,  with  unruffled  good- 
humour,  to  Thursday.  If  I  succeeded  in  accounting 
for  Thursday  he  passed  Friday,  Saturday,  Sunday, 
Monday,  and  the  following  Tuesday  before  me  in 
rapid  succession.  I  seldom  got  off  with  less  than 
one  "  quiet  evening "  in  each  week.  John  had  a 
gramophone  at  first,  and  he  used  to  make  it  hoot 
at  me.  When  I  lost  all  self-control  and  expressed 
my  feelings  about  gramophones  in  violent  language 
he  was  deeply  pained,  and  bought  a  pianola  instead. 
With  this  abominable  instrument  he  played  for  me 
all  the  most  popular  tunes  from  the  latest  comic 
operas. 

When  I  cursed  these  bitterly  he  sold  all  the  rec- 
ords and  bought  instead  long  perforated  sheets  of 
classical  music.  I  shall  not  easily  forget  the  smile 
of  triumph  with  which  he  announced  that  he  was 
going  to  give  me  real  pleasure  by  playing  "  The 


THE  FATE  OF  JOHN  GOODENOUGH  341 

Cruiser."  My  nerves  were  so  ragged  that  even- 
ing that  it  was  not  until  far  on  in  the  second  move- 
ment that  I  recognised  a  ghastly  version  of  the 
Kreutzer  Sonata.  John  pedalled  away  through  the 
whole  of  it,  his  shoulders  rising  and  falling  alter- 
nately, his  hands  busy  with  little  nickel-plated  lev- 
ers, his  face  wreathed  in  benignant  smiles. 

On  the  other  evenings  of  the  week,  those  on 
which  I  professed  to  have  engagements,  John  usu- 
ally called  on  me.  He  said  that  he  enjoyed  a  quiet 
chat  before  going  to  bed  and  regarded  it  as  a  high 
privilege  to  be  allowed  to  chat  with  me.  After  the 
first  few  evenings  he  did  all  the  chatting  that  was 
done.  I  have  often  sat  from  half-past  ten  o'clock 
until  one  o'clock  or  even  later  in  stony  silence,  lis- 
tening to  John  chatting.  I  tried  the  plan  of  giving 
orders  to  my  servants  to  refuse  admission  to  John. 
This  was  no  use.  He  came  round  to  my  window, 
easily  recognisable  by  the  light  in  it,  and  tapped 
with  his  knuckles  until  I  let  him  in.  I  tried  telling 
him  that  I  was  very  busy,  and  could  not  possibly 
leave  off  working  for  a  single  moment.  Then  he 
promised  not  to  disturb  me.  "  I'll  just  light  my 
pipe,"  he  used  to  say,  "  and  sit  quiet  until  you've 
finished."  He  was  always  as  good  as  his  word. 
He  sat  without  speaking,  motionless,  and  watched 
me  with  an  expression  of  affectionate  admiration 
while  I  pretended  to  write.  I  could  not  in  reality 
write  a  single  word.  No  one  could  write  with  a 


342  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

warm  douche  of  unalterable  love  playing  on  the 
small  of  his  back  from  John's  eyes. 

I  tried  the  plan  of  going  out  for  long  walks  at 
ten  o'clock  at  night.  I  chose  the  remotest  and  most 
unlikely  places  for  these  pilgrimages,  but  quite  vainly. 
John  had  an  instinct  like  a  hound's.  He  used  to 
track  me  down,  and  when  he  found  me,  uttered  shat- 
tering platitudes  about  the  beauty  of  the  moon,  or 
the  splendour  of  the  velvety  darkness,  or  the  glory 
of  the  storm,  fitting  the  things  he  said  to  the  weather 
conditions  which  prevailed  at  the  time.  I  do  not 
know  which  I  disliked  more,  listening  to  a  rhapsody 
about  the  moon  when  I  was  shivering  with  cold,  or 
hearing  Kingsley's  poem  about  the  north-east  wind 
declaimed  when  I  was  crouching  under  the  lee  of  a 
wall  with  my  umbrella  blown  inside  out. 

Hardly  a  day  passed  on  which  John  did  not  do 
me  some  little  kindness.  He  grew  early  lettuces 
and  brought  me  one  every  morning  during  the  sea- 
son. He  found  out  that  I  liked  cream  cheese  and 
bribed  a  man  who  deals  in  such  commodities  to 
post  me  one  every  week.  I  mentioned  incautiously 
in  his  hearing  that  I  was  singularly  interested  in 
the  protest  made  by  the  English  land-owning  classes 
against  the  Budget.  He  subscribed  to  a  press-cutting 
agency  and  secured  for  some  months  every  article 
and  letter  which  appeared  in  any  paper  about  Form 
IV.  and  the  valuation  of  land.  No  one  would  believe 
the  number  of  them  there  were.  John  used  to  carry 


THE  FATE  OF  JOHN  GOODENOUGH  343 

them  up  to  my  house  every  morning  in  a  brown 
gladstone  bag  and  unpack  them  in  my  study  with 
smiles  of  amazed  delight. 

The  end  came  early  last  month.  I  had  spent  a 
quiet  evening  with  John  on  Tuesday  and  heard  the 
whole  "  Cruiser  "  played  through  from  beginning  to 
end.  I  hoped,  vainly,  that  I  might  have  had  Wed- 
nesday evening  to  myself.  I  said  distinctly  that  I 
was  expecting  a  brother  to  dine  with  me  whom  I 
had  not  seen  for  more  than  twenty  years  and  with 
whom  I  had  many  private  affairs  to  discuss.  Yet 
at  nine  o'clock  John  arrived.  He  reminded  me, 
facetiously,  that  there  was  an  "  r "  in  September, 
and  then  produced  a  basket  containing  about  fifty 
oysters.  He  had  gone  out  in  a  boat  during  the  after- 
noon and  dredged  them  up.  He  sat  down  opposite 
me  and  took  out  an  oyster  knife.  With  it  he  opened 
the  oysters,  laboriously,  and  handed  them  one  by 
one  to  me.  I  was  expected  to  eat  them.  John 
babbled  pleasantly  all  the  time.  His  flow  of  talk 
never  ceased  for  an  instant,  not  even  when  he  gashed 
his  hand,  as  he  frequently  did,  with  the  oyster  knife. 
At  ten  o'clock  I  defiantly  refused  to  eat  another 
oyster.  John  sat  there  with  his  bandaged  hands  on 
his  knees  and  talked  to  me.  At  eleven  o'clock  I 
stopped  answering  him.  At  twelve  I  yawned  and 
continued  to  yawn  until  half-past  twelve.  Then 
I  said  I  wanted  to  go  to  bed.  John  pleaded  for 
another  half-hour.  He  said  that  he  enjoyed  talking 


344  MINNIE'S  BISHOP 

to  me  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  At  a 
quarter  to  two  I  took  the  poker,  a  strong,  heavy  one, 
and  killed  John  Goodenough.  It  was  the  only  thing 
to  do. 

I  have  managed  to  escape  being  hanged  or  even 
tried,  but  my  conscience  sometimes  troubles  me. 
Now  that  he  is  gone  I  remember  all  the  good 
points  there  were  about  John. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


NON-RENEWABLE 


DUE  2  WKS  FROM  DAT 


:  RECEIVED 


ooo 


^19441     4 


